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HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 


CAPTAIN  BLOOD,  HIS  ODYSSEY.     With  frontispiece 

In  color  by  N.  C.  Wyeth. 
SCARAMOUCHE. 
THE  SNARE. 
THE  BANNER  OF  THE  BULL. 


SCARAMOUCHE 

A  Romance 
of  the  French  Revolution 

BY 

RAFAEL  SABATINI 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

(Cfce  ftilicrsitu-  prw  Cambribgc 


COPYRIGHT,  1931,  BY  RAFAEL  SABATIN1 
ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 

Published  May,  1931 

SECOND  DEPRESSION,  JUNE,  IQ2I 
THIRD  IMPRESSION,  JUNE,  1921 
FOURTH  IMPRESSION,  JULY,  IQ2I 

FIFTH  IMPRESSION,  JULY,  IQ21 

SIXTH  IMPRESSION,  AUGUST,  IQ2I 

SEVENTH  IMPRESSION,  OCTOBER,  IQ2I 

EIGHTH  IMPRESSION,  NOVEMBER,  IQ2I 

NINTH  IMPRESSION,  FEBRUARY,  KJ22 

TENTH  IMPRESSION,  JULY,  IQ22 

ELEVENTH  IMPRESSION,  OCTOBER,  1922 

TWELFTH  IMPRESSION,  NOVEMBER,  IQ22 

THIRTEENTH  IMPRESSION,  JANUARY,  1923 

FOURTEENTH  IMPRESSION,  MARCH,  Ip23 

FIFTEENTH  IMPRESSION,  JUNE, 


College 
Library 


6037 

s/l* 


Hommes  sensibles  gui  pleurez  sur  Us  maux  de  la  Revolution, 
versez  done  aussi  guelgues  larmes  sur  les  maux  gui  I'ont  amende. 

MICHELET 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  I 
THE   ROBE 

I.  THE  REPUBLICAN  3 

II.  THE  ARISTOCRAT  13 

III.  THE  ELOQUENCE  OF  M.  DE  VILMORIN  24 

IV.  THE  HERITAGE  34 
V.  THE  LORD  OF  GAVRILLAC  40 

VI.  THE  WINDMILL  45 

VII.  THE  WIND  54 

VIII.  OMNES  OMNIBUS  68 

IX.  THE  AFTERMATH  77 

BOOK  II 
THE  BUSKIN 

I.  THE  TRESPASSERS  87 

II.  THE  SERVICE  OF  THESPIS  103 

III.  THE  COMIC  MUSE  112 

IV.  EXIT  MONSIEUR  PARVISSIMUS  124 
V.  ENTER  SCARAMOUCHE  133 

VI.  CLIMENE  142 

VII.  THE  CONQUEST  OF  NANTES  157 

VIII.  THE  DREAM  167 


vi  Contents 

IX.  THE  AWAKENING  1 74 
X.  CONTRITION  193 

XI.  THE  FRACAS  AT  THE  THEATRE  FEYDAU  202 

BOOK  III 
THE  SWORD 

I.  TRANSITION  219 

II.  Quos  DEUS  VULT  PERDERE  236 

III.  PRESIDENT  LE  CHAPELIER  244 

IV.  AT  MEUDON  254 
V.  MADAME  DE  PLOUGASTEL  269 

VI.  POLITICIANS  280 

VII.  THE  SPADASSINICIDES  290 

VIII.  THE  PALADIN  OF  THE  THIRD  301 

IX.  TORN  PRIDE  309 

X.  THE  RETURNING  CARRIAGE  322 
XI.  INFERENCES  332 

XII.  THE  OVERWHELMING  REASON  340 

XIII.  SANCTUARY  359 

XIV.  THE  BARRIER  368 
XV.  SAFE-CONDUCT  378 

XVI.  SUNRISE  386 


SCARAMOUCHE 

A  ROMANCE 


,    BOOK  I:  THE  ROBE 

•       • 
• 

CHAPTER  I 
THE  REPUBLICAN 

HE  was  born  with  a  gift  of  laughter  and  a  sense  that  the 
world  was  mad.  And  that  was  all  his  patrimony.  His  very 
paternity  was  obscure,  although  the  village  of  Gavrillac 
had  long  since  dispelled  the  cloud  of  mystery  that  hung 
about  it.  Those  simple  Brittany  folk  were  not  so  simple  as 
to  be  deceived  by  a  pretended  relationship  which  did  not 
even  possess  the  virtue  of  originality.  When  a  nobleman,  for 
no  apparent  reason,  announces  himself  the  godfather  of  an 
infant  fetched  no  man  knew  whence,  and  thereafter  cares 
for  the  lad's  rearing  and  education,  the  most  unsophisti- 
cated of  country  folk  perfectly  understand  the  situation. 
And  so  the  good  people  of  Gavrillac  permitted  themselves 
no  illusions  on  the  score  of  the  real  relationship  between 
Andr6-Louis  Moreau  —  as  the  lad  had  been  named  —  and 
Quintin  de  Kercadiou, 'Lord  of  Gavrillac,  who  dwelt  in  the 
big  grey  house  that  dominated  from  its  eminence  the  vil- 
lage clustering  below. 

Andr6-Louis  had  learnt  his  letters  at  the  village  school, 
lodged  the  while  with  old  Rabouillet,  the  attorney,  who  in 
the  capacity  of  fiscal  intendant,  looked  after  the  affairs  of 
M.  de  Kercadiou.  Thereafter,  at  the  age  of  fifteen,  he  had 
been  packed  off  to  Paris,  to  the  Lyc6e  of  Louis  Le  Grand,  to 
study  the  law  which  he  was  now  returned  to  practise  in  con- 
junction with  Rabouillet.  All  this  at  the  charges  of  his  god- 
father, M.  de  Kercadiou,  who  by  placing  him  once  more 
under  the  tutelage  of  Rabouillet  would  seem  thereby  quite 
clearly  to  be  making  provision  for  his  future. 


4  The  Robe 

Andr£-Louis,  on  his  side,  had  made  the  most  of  his  op- 
portunities. You  behold  him  at  the  age  of  four-and-twenty 
stuffed  with  learning  enough  to  produce  an  intellectual  in- 
digestion in  an  ordinary  mind.  Out  of  his  zestful  study  of 
Man,  from  Thucydides  to  the  Encyclopaedists,  from  Seneca 
to  Rousseau,  he  had  confirmed  into  an  unassailable  convic- 
tion his  earliest  conscious  impressions  of  the  general  insan- 
ity of  his  own  species.  Nor  can  I  discover  that  anything  in 
his  eventful  life  ever  afterwards  caused  him  to  waver  in  that 
opinion. 

In  body  he  was  a  slight  wisp  of  a  fellow,  scarcely  above 
middle  height,  with  a  lean,  astute  countenance,  prominent 
of  nose  and  cheek-bones,  and  with  lank,  black  hair  that 
reached  almost  to  his  shoulders.  His  mouth  was  long,  thin- 
lipped,  and  humorous.  He  was  only  just  redeemed  from  ug- 
liness by  the  splendour  of  a  pair  of  ever-questing,  luminous 
eyes,  so  dark  as  to  be  almost  black.  Of  the  whimsical  qual- 
ity of  his  mind  and  his  rare  gift  of  graceful  expression,  his 
writings  —  unfortunately  but  too  scanty  —  and  particu- 
larly his  Confessions,  afford  us  very  ample  evidence.  Of  his 
gift  of  oratory  he  was  hardly  conscious  yet,  although  he  had 
already  achieved  a  certain  fame  for  it  in  the  Literary  Cham- 
ber of  Rennes  —  one  of  those  clubs  by  now  ubiquitous  in 
the  land,  in  which  the  intellectual  youth  of  France  fore- 
gathered to  study  and  discuss  the  new  philosophies  that  were 
permeating  social  life.  But  the  fame  he  had  acquired  there 
was  hardly  enviable.  He  was  too  impish,  too  caustic,  too 
much  disposed  —  so  thought  his  colleagues  —  to  ridicule 
their  sublime  theories  for  the  regeneration  of  mankind.  Him- 
self he  protested  that  he  merely  held  them  up  to  the  mirror 
of  truth,  and  that  it  was  not  his  fault  if  when  reflected  there 
they  looked  ridiculous. 

All  that  he  achieved  by  this  was  to  exasperate;  and  his 
expulsion  from  a  society  grown  mistrustful  of  him  must 
already  have  followed  but  for  his  friend,  Philippe  de  Vil- 
morin,  a  divinity  student  of  Rennes,  who,  himself,  was  one 
of  the  most  popular  members  of  the  Literary  Chamber. 


The  Republican 


Coming  to  Gavrillac  on  a  November  morning,  laden  with 
news  of  the  political  storms  which  were  then  gathering  over 
France,  Philippe  found  in  that  sleepy  Breton  village  matter 
to  quicken  his  already  lively  indignation.  A  peasant  of  Gav- 
rillac, named  Mabey,  had  been  shot  dead  that  morning  in 
the  woods  of  Meupont,  across  the  river,  by  a  gamekeeper 
of  the  Marquis  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr.  The  unfortunate  fellow 
had  been  caught  in  the  act  of  taking  a  pheasant  from  a 
snare,  and  the  gamekeeper  had  acted  under  explicit  orders 
from  his  master. 

Infuriated  by  an  act  of  tyranny  so  absolute  and  merciless, 
M.  de  Vilmorin  proposed  to  lay  the  matter  before  M.  de  Ker- 
cadiou.  Mabey  was  a  vassal  of  Gavrillac,  and  Vilmorin 
hoped  to  move  the  Lord  of  Gavrillac  to  demand  at  least 
some  measure  of  reparation  for  the  widow  and  the  three 
orphans  which  that  brutal  deed  had  made. 

But  because  Andr6-Louis  was  Philippe's  dearest  friend 
—  indeed,  his  almost  brother  —  the  young  seminarist 
sought  him  out  in  the  first  instance.  He  found  him  at  break- 
last  alone  in  the  long,  low-ceilinged,  white-panelled  dining- 
room  at  Rabouillet's  —  the  only  home  that  Andr6-Louis  had 
ever  known  —  and  after  embracing  him,  deafened  him  with 
his  denunciation  of  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr. 

"I  have  heard  of  it  already,"  said  Andr6-Louis. 

"You  speak  as  if  the  thing  had  not  surprised  you,"  his 
friend  reproached  him. 

"  Nothing  beastly  can  surprise  me  when  done  by  a  beast. 
And  La  Tour  d'Azyr  is  a  beast,  as  all  the  world  knows.  The 
more  fool  Mabey  for  stealing  his  pheasants.  He  should  have 
stolen  somebody  else's." 

"  Is  that  all  you  have  to  say  about  it?" 

"What  more  is  there  to  say?  I've  a  practical  mind,  I 
hope." 

"What  more  there  is  to  say  I  propose  to  say  to  your  god- 
father, M.  de  Kercadiou.  I  shall  appeal  to  him  for  justice." 

"Against  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr?"  Andr6-Louis  raised 
his  eyebrows. 


6  The  Robe 

"Why  not?" 

"My  dear  ingenuous  Philippe,  dog  does  n't  eat  dog." 

"  You  are  unjust  to  your  godfather.  He  is  a  humane  man." 

"Oh,  as  humane  as  you  please.  But  this  is  n't  a  question 
of  humanity.  It's  a  question  of  game-laws." 

M.  de  Vilmorin  tossed  his  long  arms  to  Heaven  in  dis- 
gust. He  was  a  tall,  slender  young  gentleman,  a  year  or 
two  younger  than  Andre-Louis.  He  was  very  soberly  dressed 
in  black,  as  became  a  seminarist,  with  white  bands  at  wrists 
and  throat  and  silver  buckles  to  his  shoes.  His  neatly  clubbed 
brown  hair  was  innocent  of  powder. 

"You  talk  like  a  lawyer,"  he  exploded. 

"Naturally.  But  don't  waste  anger  on  me  on  that  ac- 
count. Tell  me  what  you  want  me  to  do." 

"I  want  you  to  come  to  M.  de  Kercadiou  with  me,  and 
to  use  your  influence  to  obtain  justice.  I  suppose  I  am  ask- 
ing too  much." 

"My  dear  Philippe,  I  exist  to  serve  you.  I  warn  you  that 
it  is  a  futile  quest;  but  give  me  leave  to  finish  my  breakfast, 
and  I  am  at  your  orders." 

M.  de  Vilmorin  dropped  into  a  winged  armchair  by  the 
well-swept  hearth,  on  which  a  piled-up  fire  of  pine  logs 
was  burning  cheerily.  And  whilst  he  waited  now  he  gave  his 
friend  the  latest  news  of  the  events  in  Rennes.  Young,  ar- 
dent, enthusiastic,  and  inspired  by  Utopian  ideals,  he  pas- 
sionately denounced  the  rebellious  attitude  of  the  privileged. 

Andre-Louis,  already  fully  aware  of  the  trend  of  feeling 
in  the  ranks  of  an  order  in  whose  deliberations  he  took  part 
as  the  representative  of  a  nobleman,  was  not  at  all  surprised 
by  what  he  heard.  M.  de  Vilmorin  found  it  exasperating 
that  his  friend  should  apparently  decline  to  share  his  own 
indignation. 

"Don't  you  see  what  it  means?"  he  cried.  "The  nobles, 
by  disobeying  the  King,  are  striking  at  the  very  foundations 
of  the  throne.  Don't  they  perceive  that  their  very  existence 
depends  upon  it;  that  if  the  throne  falls  over,  it  is  they  who 
stand  nearest  to  it  who  will  be  crushed  ?  Don't  they  see  that? ' ' 


The  Republican 


"Evidently  not.  They  are  just  governing  classes,  and  I 
never  heard  of  governing  classes  that  had  eyes  for  anything 
but  their  own  profit." 

"That  is  our  grievance.  That  is  what  we  are  going  to 
change." 

"You  are  going  to  abolish  governing  classes?  An  interest- 
ing experiment.  I  believe  it  was  the  original  plan  of  crea- 
tion, and  it  might  have  succeeded  but  for  Cain." 

"What  we  are  going  to  do,"  said  M.  de  Vilmorin,  curbing 
his  exasperation,  "is  to  transfer  the  government  to  other 
hands." 

"And  you  think  that  will  make  a  difference?" 

"I  know  it  will." 

"Ah!  I  take  it  that  being  now  in  minor  orders,  you  al- 
ready possess  the  confidence  of  the  Almighty.  He  will  have 
confided  to  you  His  intention  of  changing  the  pattern  of 
mankind." 

M.  de  Vilmorin 's  fine  ascetic  face  grew  overcast. 

"You  are  profane,  Andre,"  he  reproved  his  friend. 

"  I  assure  you  that  I  am  quite  serious.  To  do  what  you 
imply  would  require  nothing  short  of  divine  intervention. 
You  must  change  man,  not  systems.  Can  you  and  our  va- 
pouring friends  of  the  Literary  Chamber  of  Rennes,  or  any 
other  learned  society  of  France,  devise  a  system  of  govern- 
ment that  has  never  yet  been  tried?  Surely  not.  And  can 
they  say  of  any  system  tried  that  it  proved  other  than  a 
failure  in  the  end?  My  dear  Philippe,  the  future  is  to  be 
read  with  certainty  only  in  the  past.  Ab  actu  ad  posse 
valet  consecutio.  Man  never  changes.  He  is  always  greedy, 
always  acquisitive,  always  vile.  I  am  speaking  of  Man  in 
the  bulk." 

"Do  you  pretend  that  it  is  impossible  to  ameliorate  the 
lot  of  the  people?"  M.  de  Vilmorin  challenged  him. 

"When  you  say  the  people  you  mean,  of  course,  the  pop- 
ulace. Will  you  abolish  it?  That  is  the  only  way  to  ameli- 
orate its  lot,  for  as  long  as  it  remains  populace  its  lot  will  be 
damnation." 


8 The  Robe 

"You  argue,  of  course,  for  the  side  that  employs  you. 
That  is  natural,  I  suppose."  M.  de  Vilmorin  spoke  between 
sorrow  and  indignation. 

"On  the  contrary,  I  seek  to  argue  with  absolute  detach- 
ment. Let  us  test  these  ideas  of  yours.  To  what  form  of 
government  do  you  aspire?  A  republic,  it  is  to  be  inferred 
from  what  you  have  said.  Well,  you  have  it  already. 
France  in  reality  is  a  republic  to-day." 

Philippe  stared  at  him.  "You  are  being  paradoxical,  I 
think.  What  of  the  King?" 

"The  King?  All  the  world  knows  there  has  been  no  king 
in  France  since  Louis  XIV.  There  is  an  obese  gentleman  at 
Versailles  who  wears  the  crown,  but  the  very  news  you 
bring  shows  for  how  little  he  really  counts.  It  is  the  nobles 
and  clergy  who  sit  in  the  high  places,  with  the  people  of 
France  harnessed  under  their  feet,  who  are  the  real  rulers. 
That  is  why  I  say  that  France  is  a  republic ;  she  is  a  republic 
built  on  the  best  pattern  —  the  Roman  pattern.  Then,  as 
now,  there  were  great  patrician  families  in  luxury,  preserv- 
ing for  themselves  power  and  wealth,  and  what  else  is 
accounted  worth  possessing;  and  there  was  the  populace 
crushed  and  groaning,  sweating,  bleeding,  starving,  and 
perishing  in  the  Roman  kennels.  That  was  a  republic ;  the 
mightiest  we  have  seen." 

Philippe  strove  with  his  impatience.  "At  least  you  will 
admit  —  you  have,  in  fact,  admitted  it  —  that  we  could 
not  be  worse  governed  than  we  are?" 

"That  is  not  the  point.  The  point  is  should  we  be  better 
governed  if  we  replaced  the  present  ruling  class  by  another? 
Without  some  guarantee  of  that  I  should  be  the  last  to  lift 
a  finger  to  effect  a  change.  And  what  guarantees  can  you 
give?  What  is  the  class  that  aims  at  government?  I  will 
tell  you.  The  bourgeoisie." 

"What?" 

"That  startles  you,  eh?  Truth  is  so  often  disconcerting. 
You  had  n't  thought  of  it?  Well,  think  of  it  now.  Look 
well  into  this  Nantes  manifesto.  Who  are  the  authors  of  it?" 


The  Republican 


"I  can  tell  you  who  it  was  constrained  the  municipality 
of  Nantes  to  send  it  to  the  King.  Some  ten  thousand  work- 
men  —  shipwrights,  weavers,  labourers,  and  artisans  of 
every  kind." 

"Stimulated  to  it,  driven  to  it,  by  their  employers,  the 
wealthy  traders  and  shipowners  of  that  city,"  Andr6-Louis 
replied.  "I  have  a  habit  of  observing  things  at  close  quar- 
ters, which  is  why  our  colleagues  of  the  Literary  Chamber 
dislike  me  so  cordially  in  debate.  Where  I  delve  they  but 
skim.  Behind  those  labourers  and  artisans  of  Nantes, 
counselling  them,  urging  on  these  poor,  stupid,  ignorant 
toilers  to  shed  their  blood  in  pursuit  of  the  will  o'  the  wisp 
of  freedom,  are  the  sail-makers,  the  spinners,  the  ship- 
owners and  the  slave-traders.  The  slave-traders !  The  men 
who  live  and  grow  rich  by  a  traffic  in  human  flesh  and  blood 
in  the  colonies,  are  conducting  at  home  a  campaign  in  the 
sacred  name  of  liberty !  Don't  you  see  that  the  whole  move- 
ment is  a  movement  of  hucksters  and  traders  and  peddling 
vassals  swollen  by  wealth  into  envy  of  the  power  that  lies  in 
birth  alone?  The  money-changers  in  Paris  who  hold  the 
bonds  in  the  national  debt,  seeing  the  parlous  financial  con- 
dition of  the  State,  tremble  at  the  thought  that  it  may  lie 
in  the  power  of  a  single  man  to  cancel  the  debt  by  bank- 
ruptcy. To  secure  themselves  they  are  burrowing  under- 
ground to  overthrow  a  state  and  build  upon  its  ruins  a  new 
one  in  which  they  shall  be  the  masters.  And  to  accomplish 
this  they  inflame  the  people.  Already  in  Dauphiny  we  have 
seen  blood  run  like  water  —  the  blood  of  the  populace,  al- 
ways the  blood  of  the  populace.  Now  in  Brittany  we  may 
see  the  like.  And  if  in  the  end  the  new  ideas  prevail?  if  the 
seigneurial  rule  is  overthrown,  what  then?  You  will  have 
exchanged  an  aristocracy  for  a  plutocracy.  Is  that  worth 
while?  Do  you  think  that  under  money-changers  and  slave- 
traders  and  men  who  have  waxed  rich  in  other  ways  by  the 
ignoble  arts  of  buying  and  selling,  the  lot  of  the  people  will 
be  any  better  than  under  their  priests  and  nobles?  Has  it 
ever  occurred  to  you,  Philippe,  what  it  is  that  makes  the 


io  The  Robe 

rule  of  the  nobles  so  intolerable?  Acquisitiveness.  Acquisi- 
tiveness is  the  curse  of  mankind.  And  shall  you  expect  less 
acquisitiveness  in  men  who  have  built  themselves  up  by 
acquisitiveness?  Oh,  I  am  ready  to  admit  that  the  present 
government  is  execrable,  unjust,  tyrannical  —  what  you  will ; 
but  I  beg  you  to  look  ahead,  and  to  see  that  the  govern- 
ment for  which  it  is  aimed  at  exchanging  it  may  be  in- 
finitely worse." 

Philippe  sat  thoughtful  a  moment.  Then  he  returned  to 
the  attack. 

"You  do  not  speak  of  the  abuses,  the  horrible,  intolerable 
abuses  of  power  under  which  we  labour  at  present." 

"Where  there  is  power  there  will  always  be  the  abuse  of 
it." 

"Not  if  the  tenure  of  power  is  dependent  upon  its  equi- 
table administration." 

"The  tenure  of  power  is  power.  We  cannot  dictate  to 
those  who  hold  it." 

"The  people  can  —  the  people  in  its  might." 

"Again  I  ask  you,  when  you  say  the  people  do  you  mean 
the  populace?  You  do.  What  power  can  the  populace 
wield  ?  It  can  run  wild.  It  can  burn  and  slay  for  a  time.  But 
enduring  power  it  cannot  wield,  because  power  demands 
qualities  which  the  populace  does  not  possess,  or  it  would 
not  be  populace.  The  inevitable,  tragic  corollary  of  civiliza- 
tion is  populace.  For  the  rest,  abuses  can  be  corrected  by 
equity;  and  equity,  if  it  is  not  found  in  the  enlightened,  is 
not  to  be  found  at  all.  M.  Necker  is  to  set  about  cor- 
recting abuses,  and  limiting  privileges.  That  is  decided. 
To  that  end  the  States  General  are  to  assemble." 

"And  a  promising  beginning  we  have  made  in  Brittany, 
as  Heaven  hears  me!"  cried  Philippe. 

"Pooh!  That  is  nothing.  Naturally  the  nobles  will  not 
yield  without  a  struggle.  It  is  a  futile  and  ridiculous  strug- 
gle —  but  then  ...  it  is  human  nature,  I  suppose,  to  be 
futile  and  ridiculous." 

M.  de  Vilmorin  became  witheringly  sarcastic.    "Prob- 


The  Republican  II 


ably  you  will  also  qualify  the  shooting  of  Mabey  as  fu- 
tile and  ridiculous.  I  should  even  be  prepared  to  hear  you 
argue  in  defence  of  the  Marquis  de  La  Tour  d'  Azyr  that 
his  gamekeeper  was  merciful  in  shooting  Mabey,  since  the 
alternative  would  have  been  a  life-sentence  to  the  galleys." 

Andre-Louis  drank  the  remainder  of  his  chocolate;  set 
down  his  cup,  and  pushed  back  his  chair,  his  breakfast  done. 

"I  confess  that  I  have  not  your  big  charity,  my  dear 
Philippe.  I  am  touched  by  Mabey's  fate.  But,  having  con- 
quered the  shock  of  this  news  to  my  emotions,  I  do  not  for- 
get that,  after  all,  Mabey  was  thieving  when  he  met  his 
death." 

M.  de  Vilmorin  heaved  himself  up  in  his  indignation. 

"That  is  the  point  of  view  to  be  expected  in  one  who  is 
the  assistant  fiscal  intendant  of  a  nobleman,  and  the  dele- 
gate of  a  nobleman  to  the  States  of  Brittany." 

"Philippe,  is  that  just?  You  are  angry  with  me!"  he 
cried,  in  real  solicitude. 

"I  am  hurt,"  Vilmorin  admitted.  "I  am  deeply  hurt  by 
your  attitude.  And  I  am  not  alone  in  resenting  your  reaction- 
ary tendencies.  Do  you  know  that  the  Literary  Chamber 
is  seriously  considering  your  expulsion?" 

Andre-Louis  shrugged.  "That  neither  surprises  nor 
troubles  me." 

M.  de  Vilmorin  swept  on,  passionately:  "Sometimes  I 
think  that  you  have  no  heart.  With  you  it  is  always  the 
law,  never  equity.  It  occurs  to  me,  Andre,  that  I  was  mis- 
taken in  coming  to  you.  You  are  not  likely  to  be  of  as- 
sistance to  me  in  my  interview  with  M.  de  Kercadiou."  He 
took  up  his  hat,  clearly  with  the  intention  of  departing. 

Andre-Louis  sprang  up  and  caught  him  by  the  arm. 

"I  vow,"  said  he,  "that  this  is  the  last  time  ever  I  shall 
consent  to  talk  law  or  politics  with  you,  Philippe.  I  love 
you  too  well  to  quarrel  with  you  over  other  men's  affairs." 

"But  I  make  them  my  own,"  Philippe  insisted  vehe- 
mently. 

"Of  course  you  do,  and  I  love  you  for  it.   It  is  right  that 


12  The  Robe 

you  should.  You  are  to  be  a  priest;  and  everybody's  busi- 
ness is  a  priest's  business.  Whereas  I  am  a  lawyer  —  the 
fiscal  intendant  of  a  nobleman,  as  you  say  —  and  a  lawyer's 
business  is  the  business  of  his  client.  That  is  the  difference 
between  us.  Nevertheless,  you  are  not  going  to  shake  me 
off." 

"But  I  tell  you  frankly,  now  that  I  come  to  think  of  it, 
that  I  should  prefer  you  did  not  see  M.  de  Kercadiou  with 
me.  Your  duty  to  your  client  cannot  be  a  help  to  me." 
His  wrath  had  passed;  but  his  determination  remained  firm, 
based  upon  the  reason  he  gave. 

"Very  well,"  said  Andre-Louis.  "It  shall  be  as  you 
please.  But  nothing  shall  prevent  me  at  least  from  walking 
with  you  as  far  as  the  chateau,  and  waiting  for  you  while 
you  make  your  appeal  to  M.  de  Kercadiou." 

And  so  they  left  the  house  good  friends,  for  the  sweetness 
of  M.  de  Vilmorin's  nature  did  not  admit  of  rancour,  and 
together  they  took  their  way  up  the  steep  main  street  of 
Gavrillac. 


CHAPTER  II 
THE  ARISTOCRAT 

THE  sleepy  village  of  Gavrillac,  a  half-league  removed  from 
the  main  road  to  Rennes,  and  therefore  undisturbed  by  the 
world's  traffic,  lay  in  a  curve  of  the  River  Meu,  at  the  foot, 
and  straggling  halfway  up  the  slope,  of  the  shallow  hill 
that  was  crowned  by  the  squat  manor.  By  the  time  Gavril- 
lac had  paid  tribute  to  its  seigneur  —  partly  in  money  and 
partly  in  service  —  tithes  to  the  Church,  and  imposts  to  the 
King,  it  was  hard  put  to  it  to  keep  body  and  soul  together 
with  what  remained.  Yet,  hard  as  conditions  were  in  Gavril- 
lac, they  were  not  so  hard  as  in  many  other  parts  of  France, 
not  half  so  hard,  for  instance,  as  with  the  wretched  feuda- 
tories of  the  great  Lord  of  La  Tour  d'Azyr,  whose  vast  pos- 
sessions were  at  one  point  separated  from  this  little  village 
by  the  waters  of  the  Meu. 

The  Chateau  de  Gavrillac  owed  such  seigneurial  airs  as 
might  be  claimed  for  it  to  its  dominant  position  above  the 
village  rather  than  to  any  feature  of  its  own.  Built  of 
granite,  like  all  the  rest  of  Gavrillac,  though  mellowed  by 
some  three  centuries  of  existence,  it  was  a  squat,  flat-fronted 
edifice  of  two  stories,  each  lighted  by  four  windows  with 
external  wooden  shutters,  and  flanked  at  either  end  by  two 
square  towers  or  pavilions  under  extinguisher  roofs.  Stand- 
ing well  back  in  a  garden,  denuded  now,  but  very  pleasant  in 
summer,  and  immediately  fronted  by  a  fine  sweep  of  bal- 
ustraded  terrace,  it  looked,  what  indeed  it  was,  and  always 
had  been,  the  residence  of  unpretentious  folk  who  found 
more  interest  in  husbandry  than  in  adventure. 

Quintin  de  Kercadiou,  Lord  of  Gavrillac  —  Seigneur  de 
Gavrillac  was  all  the  vague  title  that  he  bore,  as  his  fore- 
fathers had  borne  before  him,  derived  no  man  knew  whence 
or  how  —  confirmed  the  impression  that  his  house  con- 
veyed. Rude  as  the  granite  itself,  he  had  never  sought  the 


14  The  Robe 

experience  of  courts,  had  not  even  taken  service  in  the 
armies  of  his  King.  He  left  it  to  his  younger  brother, 
fitienne,  to  represent  the  family  in  those  exalted  spheres. 
His  own  interests  from  earliest  years  had  been  centred  in 
his  woods  and  pastures.  He  hunted,  and  he  cultivated  his 
acres,  and  superficially  he  appeared  to  be  little  better  than 
any  of  his  rustic  metayers.  He  kept  no  state,  or  at  least  no 
state  commensurate  with  his  position  or  with  the  tastes  of 
his  niece  Aline  de  Kercadiou.  Aline,  having  spent  some  two 
years  in  the  court  atmosphere  of  Versailles  under  the  aegis 
of  her  uncle  fitienne,  had  ideas  very  different  from  those  of 
her  uncle  Quintin  of  what  was  befitting  seigneurial  dignity. 
But  though  this  only  child  of  a  third  Kercadiou  had  exer- 
cised, ever  since  she  was  left  an  orphan  at  the  early  age  of 
four,  a  tyrannical  rule  over  the  Lord  of  Gavrillac,  who  had 
been  father  and  mother  to  her,  she  had  never  yet  succeeded 
in  beating  down  his  stubbornness  on  that  score. 

She  did  not  yet  despair  —  persistence  being  a  dominant 
note  in  her  character  —  although  she  had  been  assiduously 
and  fruitlessly  at  work  since  her  return  from  the  great  world 
of  Versailles,  some  three  months  ago. 

She  was  walking  on  the  terrace  when  Andr6-Louis  and 
M.  de  Vilmorin  arrived.  Her  slight  body  was  wrapped 
against  the  chill  air  in  a  white  pelisse;  her  head  was  en- 
cased in  a  close-fitting  bonnet,  edged  with  white  fur.  It  was 
caught  tight  in  a  knot  of  pale-blue  ribbon  on  the  right  of 
her  chin ;  on  the  left  a  long  ringlet  of  corn-coloured  hair  had 
been  permitted  to  escape.  The  keen  air  had  whipped  so 
much  of  her  cheeks  as  was  presented  to  it,  and  seemed  to 
have  added  sparkle  to  eyes  that  were  of  darkest  blue. 

Andre-Louis  and  M.  de  Vilmorin  had  been  known  to  her 
from  childhood.  The  three  had  been  playmates  once,  and 
Andre-Louis  —  in  view  of  his  spiritual  relationship  with  her 
uncle  —  she  called  her  cousin.  The  cousinly  relations  had 
persisted  between  these  two  long  after  Philippe  de  Vilmorin 
had  outgrown  the  earlier  intimacy,  and  had  become  to  her 
Monsieur  de  Vilmorin. 


The  Aristocrat  15 


She  waved  her  hand  to  them  in  greeting  as  they  advanced, 
and  stood  —  an  entrancing  picture,  and  fully  conscious  of 
it  —  to  await  them  at  the  end  of  the  terrace  nearest  the 
short  avenue  by  which  they  approached. 

"If  you  come  to  see  monsieur  my  uncle,  you  come  in- 
opportunely, messieurs,"  she  told  them,  a  certain  fever- 
ishness  in  her  air.  "He  is  closely  —  oh,  so  very  closely  — 
engaged." 

"We  will  wait,  mademoiselle,"  said  M.  de  Vilmorin, 
bowing  gallantly  over  the  hand  she  extended  to  him.  "  In- 
deed, who  would  haste  to  the  uncle  that  may  tarry  a  mo- 
ment with  the  niece?" 

"M.  I'abb6,"  she  teased  him,  "when  you  are  in  orders  I 
shall  take  you  for  my  confessor.  You  have  so  ready  and 
sympathetic  an  understanding." 

"But  no  curiosity,"  said  Andr6-Louis.  "You  haven't 
thought  of  that." 

"I  wonder  what  you  mean,  Cousin  AndreV' 

"Well  you  may,"  laughed  Philippe.  "For  no  one  ever 
knows."  And  then,  his  glance  straying  across  the  terrace 
settled  upon  a  carriage  that  was  drawn  up  before  the 
door  of  the  chateau.  It  was  a  vehicle  such  as  was  often  to 
be  seen  in  the  streets  of  a  great  city,  but  rarely  in  the 
country.  It  was  a  beautifully  sprung  two-horse  cabriolet 
of  walnut,  with  a  varnish  upon  it  like  a  sheet  of  glass  and 
little  pastoral  scenes  exquisitely  painted  on  the  panels  of  the 
door.  It  was  built  to  carry  two  persons,  with  a  box  in  front 
for  the  coachman,  and  a  stand  behind  for  the  footman. 
This  stand  was  empty,  but  the  footman  paced  before  the 
door,  and  as  he  emerged  now  from  behind  the  vehicle  into 
the  range  of  M.  de  Vilmorin 's  vision,  he  displayed  the  re- 
splendent blue-and-gold  livery  of  the  Marquis  de  La  Tour 
d'Azyr. 

"Why!"  he  exclaimed.  "  Is  it  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr  who 
is  with  your  uncle?" 

"It  is,  monsieur,"  said  she,  a  world  of  mystery  in  voice 
and  eyes,  of  which  M.  de  Vilmorin  observed  nothing. 


1 6  The  Robe 

"Ah,  pardon!"  He  bowed  low,  hat  in  hand.  "Serviteur, 
mademoiselle,"  and  he  turned  to  depart  towards  the  house. 

"Shall  I  come  with  you,  Philippe?"  Andr£-Louis  called 
after  him. 

"It  would  be  ungallant  to  assume  that  you  would  prefer 
it,"  said  M.  de  Vilmorin,  with  a  glance  at  mademoiselle. 
"Nor  do  I  think  it  would  serve.  If  you  will  wait .  .  ." 

M.  de  Vilmorin  strode  off.  Mademoiselle,  after  a  mo- 
ment's blank  pause,  laughed ripplingly.  "Now  where  is  he 
going  in  such  a  hurry?" 

"To  see  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr  as  well  as  your  uncle,  I 
should  say." 

"But  he  cannot.  They  cannot  see  him.  Did  I  not  say 
that  they  are  very  closely  engaged?  You  don't  ask  me  why, 
Andr6."  There  was  an  arch  mysteriousness  about  her,  a 
latent  something  that  may  have  been  elation  or  amusement, 
or  perhaps  both.  Andr6-Louis  could  not  determine  it. 

"Since  obviously  you  are  all  eagerness  to  tell,  why  should 
I  ask?"  quoth  he. 

"If  you  are  caustic  I  shall  not  tell  you  even  if  you  ask. 
Oh,  yes,  I  will.  It  will  teach  you  to  treat  me  with  the  re- 
spect that  is  my  due." 

"I  hope  I  shall  never  fail  in  that." 

"Less  than  ever  when  you  learn  that  I  am  very  closely 
concerned  in  the  visit  of  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr.  I  am  the 
object  of  this  visit."  And  she  looked  at  him  with  sparkling 
eyes  and  lips  parted  in  laughter. 

"The  rest,  you  would  seem  to  imply,  is  obvious.  But  I 
am  a  dolt,  if  you  please;  for  it  is  not  obvious  to  me." 

"Why,  stupid,  he  comes  to  ask  my  hand  in  marriage." 

"Good  God!"  said  Andr6-Louis,  and  stared  at  her,  chap- 
fallen. 

She  drew  back  from  him  a  little  with  a  frown  and  an  up- 
ward tilt  of  her  chin.  " It  surprises  you?" 

"It  disgusts  me,"  said  he,  bluntly.  "In  fact,  I  don't  be- 
lieve it.  You  are  amusing  yourself  with  me." 

For  a  moment  she  put  aside  her  visible  annoyance  to  re- 


The  Aristocrat  17 


move  his  doubts.  "I  am  quite  serious,  monsieur.  jThere 
came  a  formal  letter  to  my  uncle  this  morning  from  M.  de 
La  Tour  d'Azyr,  announcing  the  visit  and  its  object.  I  will 
not  say  that  it  did  not  surprise  us  a  little  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  I  see,"  cried  Andre-Louis,  in  relief.  "I  understand. 
For  a  moment  I  had  almost  feared  ..."  He  broke  off, 
looked  at  her,  and  shrugged. 

"Why  do  you  stop?  You  had  almost  feared  that  Ver- 
sailles had  been  wasted  upon  me.  That  I  should  permit  the 
courtship  of  me  to  be  conducted  like  that  of  any  village 
wench.  It  was  stupid  of  you.  I  am  being  sought  in  proper 
form,  at  my  uncle's  hands." 

"Is  his  consent,  then,  all  that  matters,  according  to  Ver- 
sailles?" 

"What  else?" 

"There  is  your  own." 

She  laughed.  "  I  am  a  dutiful  niece  .  .  .  when  it  suits  me." 

"And  will  it  suit  you  to  be  dutiful  if  your  uncle  accepts 
this  monstrous  proposal?" 

"Monstrous!"  She  bridled.  "And  why  monstrous,  if 
you  please?" 

"For  a  score  of  reasons,"  he  answered,  irritably. 

"Give  me  one,"  she  challenged  him. 

"He  is  twice  your  age." 

"Hardly  so  much,"  said  she. 

"He  is  forty-five,  at  least." 

"But  he  looks  no  more  than  thirty.  He  is  very  handsome 
—  so  much  you  will  admit ;  nor  will  you  deny  that  he  is  very 
wealthy  and  very  powerful;  the  greatest  nobleman  in  Brit- 
tany. He  will  make  me  a  great  lady." 

"God  made  you  that,  Aline." 

"Come,  that's  better.  Sometimes  you  can  almost  be  po- 
lite." And  she  moved  along  the  terrace,  Andr6-Louis  pacing 
beside  her. 

"  I  can  be  more  than  that  to  show  reason  why  you  should 
not  let  this  beast  befoul  the  beautiful  thing  that  God  has 
made." 


18  The  Robe 

She  frowned,  and  her  lips  tightened.  "You  are  speaking 
of  my  future  husband,"  she  reproved  him. 

His  lips  tightened  too ;  his  pale  face  grew  paler. 

"And  is  it  so?  It  is  settled,  then?  Your  uncle  is  to  agree? 
You  are  to  be  sold  thus,  lovelessly,  into  bondage  to  a  man 
you  do  not  know.  I  had  dreamed  of  better  things  for  you, 
Aline." 

"Better  than  to  be  Marquise  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr?" 

He  made  a  gesture  of  exasperation.  "Are  men  and  women 
nothing  more  than  names?  Do  the  souls  of  them  count  for 
nothing?  Is  there  no  joy  in  life,  no  happiness,  that  wealth 
and  pleasure  and  empty,  high-sounding  titles  are  to  be  its 
only  aims?  I  had  set  you  high  —  so  high,  Aline  —  a  thing 
scarce  earthly.  There  is  joy  in  your  heart,  intelligence  in 
your  mind;  and,  as  I  thought,  the  vision  that  pierces  husks 
and  shams  to  claim  the  core  of  reality  for  its  own.  Yet 
you  will  surrender  all  for  a  parcel  of  make-believe.  You  will 
sell  your  soul  and  your  body  to  be  Marquise  de  La  Tour 
d'Azyr." 

"You  are  indelicate,"  said  she,  and  though  she  frowned 
her  eyes  laughed.  "And  you  go  headlong  to  conclusions. 
My  uncle  will  not  consent  to  more  than  to  allow  my  consent 
to  be  sought.  We  understand  each  other,  my  uncle  and  I. 
I  am  not  to  be  bartered  like  a  turnip." 

He  stood  still  to  face  her,  his  eyes  glowing,  a  flush  creeping 
into  his  pale  cheeks. 

"You  have  been  torturing  me  to  amuse  yourself!"  he 
cried.  "Ah,  well,  I  forgive  you  out  of  my  relief." 

"Again  you  go  too  fast,  Cousin  Andr6.  I  have  permitted 
my  uncle  to  consent  that  M.  le  Marquis  shall  make  his  court 
to  me.  I  like  the  look  of  the  gentleman.  I  am  flattered  by 
his  preference  when  I  consider  his  eminence.  It  is  an  emi- 
nence that  I  may  find  it  desirable  to  share.  M.  le  Marquis 
does  not  look  as  if  he  were  a  dullard.  It  should  be  interesting 
to  be  wooed  by  him.  It  may  be  more  interesting  still  to 
marry  him,  and  I  think,  when  all  is  considered,  that  I  shall 
probably  —  very  probably  —  decide  to  do  so." 


The  Aristocrat  19 


He  looked  at  her,  looked  at  the  sweet,  challenging  love- 
liness of  that  childlike  face  so  tightly  framed  in  the  oval  of 
white  fur,  and  all  the  life  seemed  to  go  out  of  his  own  coun- 
tenance. 

"God  help  you,  Aline!"  he  groaned. 

She  stamped  her  foot.  He  was  really  very  exasperating, 
and  something  presumptuous  too,  she  thought. 

"You  are  insolent,  monsieur." 

"It  is  never  insolent  to  pray,  Aline.  And  I  did  no  more 
than  pray,  as  I  shall  continue  to  do.  You  '11  need  my  prayers, 
I  think." 

"You  are  insufferable!"  She  was  growing  angry,  as  he 
saw  by  the  deepening  frown,  the  heightened  colour. 

"That  is  because  I  suffer.  Oh,  Aline,  little  cousin,  think 
well  of  what  you  do;  think  well  of  the  realities  you  will  be 
bartering  for  these  shams  —  the  realities  that  you  will  never 
know,  because  these  cursed  shams  will  block  your  way  to 
them.  When  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr  comes  to  make  his 
court,  study  him  well;  consult  your  fine  instincts;  leave 
your  own  noble  nature  free  to  judge  this  animal  by  its  in- 
tuitions. Consider  that  ..." 

"I  consider,  monsieur,  that  you  presume  upon  the  kind- 
ness I  have  always  shown  you.  You  abuse  the  position  of 
toleration  in  which  you  stand.  Who  are  you?  What  are 
you,  that  you  should  have  the  insolence  to  take  this  tone 
with  me?" 

He  bowed,  instantly  his  cold,  detached  self  again,  and 
resumed  the  mockery  that  was  his  natural  habit. 

"My  congratulations,  mademoiselle,  upon  the  readiness 
with  which  you  begin  to  adapt  yourself  to  the  great  r61e  you 
are  to  play." 

"Do  you  adapt  yourself  also,  monsieur,"  she  retorted 
angrily,  and  turned  her  shoulder  to  him. 

"To  be  as  the  dust  beneath  the  haughty  feet  of  Madame 
la  Marquise.  I  hope  I  shall  know  my  place  in  future." 

The  phrase  arrested  her.  She  turned  to  him  again,  and 
he  perceived  that  her  eyes  were  shining  now  suspiciously. 


20  The  Robe 

In  an  instant  the  mockery  in  him  was  quenched  in  contri- 
tion. 

"Lord,  what  a  beast  I  am,  Aline!"  he  cried,  as  he  ad- 
vanced. "Forgive  me  if  you  can." 

Almost  had  she  turned  to  sue  forgiveness  from  him.  But 
his  contrition  removed  the  need. 

"  I  '11  try,"  said  she,  "provided  that  you  undertake  not  to 
offend  again." 

"  But  I  shall,"  said  he.  "  I  am  like  that.  I  will  fight  to  save 
you,  from  yourself  if  need  be,  whether  you  forgive  me  or  not." 

They  were  standing  so,  confronting  each  other  a  little 
breathlessly,  a  little  defiantly,  when  the  others  issued  from 
the  porch. 

First  came  the  Marquis  of  La  Tour  d'Azyr,  Count  of 
Solz,  Knight  of  the  Orders  of  the  Holy  Ghost  and  Saint 
Louis,  and  Brigadier  in  the  armies  of  the  King.  He  was  a 
tall,  graceful  man,  upright  and  soldierly  of  carriage,  with  his 
head  disdainfully  set  upon  his  shoulders.  He  was  magnifi- 
cently dressed  in  a  full-skirted  coat  of  mulberry  velvet  that 
was  laced  with  gold.  His  waistcoat,  of  velvet  too,  was  of  a 
golden  apricot  colour;  his  breeches  and  stockings  were  of 
black  silk,  and  his  lacquered,  red-heeled  shoes  were  buckled 
in  diamonds.  His  powdered  hair  was  tied  behind  in  a  broad 
ribbon  of  watered  silk ;  he  carried  a  little  three-cornered  hat 
under  his  arm,  and  a  gold-hilted  slender  dress-sword  hung 
at  his  side. 

Considering  him  now  in  complete  detachment,  observing 
the  magnificence  of  him,  the  elegance  of  his  movements,  the 
great  air,  blending  in  so  extraordinary  a  manner  disdain 
and  graciousness,  Andre-Louis  trembled  for  Aline.  Here 
was  a  practised,  irresistible  wooer,  whose  bonnes  fortunes 
were  become  a  by-word,  a  man  who  had  hitherto  been  the 
despair  of  dowagers  with  marriageable  daughters,  and  the 
desolation  of  husbands  with  attractive  wives. 

He  was  immediately  followed  by  M.  de  Kercadiou,  in 
completest  contrast.  On  legs  of  the  shortest,  the  Lord  of 
Gavrillac  carried  a  body  that  at  forty-five  was  beginning 


The  Aristocrat  21 


to  incline  to  corpulence  and  an  enormous  head  containing 
an  indifferent  allotment  of  intelligence.  His  countenance 
was  pink  and  blotchy,  liberally  branded  by  the  smallpox 
which  had  almost  extinguished  him  in  youth.  In  dress  he 
was  careless  to  the  point  of  untidiness,  and  to  this  and  to 
the  fact  that  he  had  never  married  —  disregarding  the  first 
duty  of  a  gentleman  to  provide  himself  with  an  heir  —  he 
owed  the  character  of  misogynist  attributed  to  him  by  the 
countryside. 

After  M.  de  Kercadiou  came  M.  de  Vilmorin,  very  pale 
and  self-contained,  with  tight  lips  and  an  overcast  brow. 

To  meet  them,  there  stepped  from  the  carriage  a  very 
elegant  young  gentleman,  the  Chevalier  de  Chabrillane, 
M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr's  cousin,  who  whilst  awaiting  his 
return  had  watched  with  considerable  interest  —  his  own 
presence  unsuspected  —  the  perambulations  of  Andr6-Louis 
and  mademoiselle. 

Perceiving  Aline,  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr  detached  him- 
self from  the  others,  and  lengthening  his  stride  came 
straight  across  the  terrace  to  her. 

To  Andre-Louis  the  Marquis  inclined  his  head  with  that 
mixture  of  courtliness  and  condescension  which  he  used. 
Socially,  the  young  lawyer  stood  in  a  curious  position.  By 
virtue  of  the  theory  of  his  birth,  he  ranked  neither  as  noble 
nor  as  simple,  but  stood  somewhere  between  the  two  classes, 
and  whilst  claimed  by  neither  he  was  used  familiarly  by 
both.  Coldly  now  he  returned  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr's 
greeting,  and  discreetly  removed  himself  to  go  and  join 
his  friend. 

The  Marquis  took  the  hand  that  mademoiselle  extended 
to  him,  and  bowing  over  it,  bore  it  to  his  lips. 

"Mademoiselle,"  he  said,  looking  into  the  blue  depths  of 
her  eyes,  that  met  his  gaze  smiling  and  untroubled,  "mon- 
sieur your  uncle  does  me  the  honour  to  permit  that  I  pay 
my  homage  to  you.  Will  you,  mademoiselle,  do  me  the 
honour  to  receive  me  when  I  come  to-morrow?  I  shall  have 
something  of  great  importance  for  your  ear." 


22  The  Robe 

"Of  importance,  M.  le  Marquis?  You  almost  frighten 
me."  But  there  was  no  fear  on  the  serene  little  face  in  its 
furred  hood.  It  was  not  for  nothing  that  she  had  grad- 
uated in  the  Versailles  school  of  artificialities. 

"That,"  said  he,  "is  very  far  from  my  design." 

"But  of  importance  to  yourself,  monsieur,  or  to  me?" 

"To  us  both,  I  hope,"  he  answered  her,  a  world  of  mean- 
ing in  his  fine,  ardent  eyes. 

"You  whet  my  curiosity,  monsieur;  and,  of  course,  I  am 
a  dutiful  niece.  It  follows  that  I  shall  be  honoured  to  re- 
ceive you." 

"Not  honoured,  mademoiselle;  you  will  confer  the  hon- 
our. To-morrow  at  this  hour,  then,  I  shall  have  the  felicity 
to  wait  upon  you." 

He  bowed  again ;  and  again  he  bore  her  fingers  to  his  lips, 
what  time  she  curtsied.  Thereupon,  with  no  more  than  this 
formal  breaking  of  the  ice,  they  parted. 

She  was  a  little  breathless  now,  a  little  dazzled  by  the 
beauty  of  the  man,  his  princely  air,  and  the  confidence  of 
power  he  seemed  to  radiate.  Involuntarily  almost,  she  con- 
trasted him  with  his  critic  —  the  lean  and  impudent  Andr6- 
Louis  in  his  plain  brown  coat  and  steel-buckled  shoes  — 
and  she  felt  guilty  of  an  unpardonable  offence  in  having 
permitted  even  one  word  of  that  presumptuous  criticism. 
To-morrow  M.  le  Marquis  would  come  to  offer  her  a  great 
position,  a  great  rank.  And  already  she  had  derogated  from 
the  increase  of  dignity  accruing  to  her  from  his  very  in- 
tention to  translate  her  to  so  great  an  eminence.  Not  again 
would  she  suffer  it;  not  again  would  she  be  so  weak  and 
childish  as  to  permit  Andr6-Louis  to  utter  his  ribald  com- 
ments upon  a  man  by  comparison  with  whom  he  was  no 
better  than  a  lackey. 

Thus  argued  vanity  and  ambition  with  her  better  self; 
and  to  her  vast  annoyance  her  better  self  would  not  admit 
entire  conviction. 

Meanwhile,  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr  was  climbing  into  his 
carriage.  He  had  spoken  a  word  of  farewell  to  M.  de  Ker- 


The  Aristocrat  23 


cadiou,  and  he  had  also  had  a  word  for  M.  de  Vilmorin  in  re- 
ply to  which  M.  de  Vilmorin  had  bowed  in  assenting  silence. 

The  carriage  rolled  away,  the  powdered  footman  in  blue- 
and-gold'very  stiff  behind  it,  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr  bowing 
to  mademoiselle,  who  waved  to  him  in  answer. 

Then  M.  de  Vilmorin  put  his  arm  through  that  of  Andr6- 
Louis,  and  said  to  him,  "Come,  Andr6." 

"But  you'll  stay  to  dine,  both  of  you!"  cried  the  hos- 
pitable Lord  of  Gavrillac.  ''We'll  drink  a  certain  toast," 
he  added,  winking  an  eye  that  strayed  towards  mademoi- 
selle, who  was  approaching.  He  had  no  subtleties,  good  soul 
that  he  was. 

M.  de  Vilmorin  deplored  an  appointment  that  prevented 
him  doing  himself  the  honour.  He  was  very  stiff  and  formal. 

"And  you,  Andre?" 

"I?  Oh,  I  share  the  appointment,  godfather,"  he  lied, 
"and  I  have  a  superstition  against  toasts."  He  had  no 
wish  to  remain.  He  was  angry  with  Aline  for  her  smiling 
reception  of  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr  and  the  sordid  bargain 
he  saw  her  set  on  making.  He  was  suffering  from  the  loss 
of  an  illusion. 


CHAPTER  III 
THE  ELOQUENCE  OF  M.  DE  VILMORIN 

As  they  walked  down  the  hill  together,  it  was  now  M.  de 
Vilmorin  who  was  silent  and  preoccupied,  Andr6-Louis  who 
was  talkative.  He  had  chosen  Woman  as  a  subject  for  his 
present  discourse.  He  claimed  —  quite  unjustifiably  —  to 
have  discovered  Woman  that  morning;  and  the  things  he 
had  to  say  of  the  sex  were  unflattering,  and  occasionally 
almost  gross.  M.  de  Vilmorin,  having  ascertained  the  sub- 
ject, did  not  listen.  Singular  though  it  may  seem  in  a  young 
French  abb6  of  his  day,  M.  de  Vilmorin  was  not  interested 
in  Woman.  Poor  Philippe  was  in  several  ways  exceptional. 

Opposite  the  Breton  Arme — the  inn  and  posting-house  at 
the  entrance  of  the  village  of  Gavrillac  —  M.  de  Vilmorin 
interrupted  his  companion  just  as  he  was  soaring  to  the  diz- 
ziest heights  of  caustic  invective,  and  Andr6-Louis,  restored 
thereby  to  actualities,  observed  the  carriage  of  M.  de  La 
Tour  d'Azyr  standing  before  the  door  of  the  hostelry. 

"I  don't  believe  you've  been  listening  to  me,"  said  he. 

"Had  you  been  less  interested  in  what  you  were  saying, 
you  might  have  observed  it  sooner  and  spared  your  breath. 
The  fact  is,  you  disappoint  me,  Andr6.  You  seem  to  have 
forgotten  what  we  went  for.  I  have  an  appointment  here 
with  M.  le  Marquis.  He  desires  to  hear  me  further  in  the 
matter.  Up  there  at  Gavrillac  I  could  accomplish  nothing. 
The  time  was  ill-chosen  as  it  happened.  But  I  have  hopes 
of  M.  le  Marquis." 

"Hopes  of  what?" 

"That  he  will  make  what  reparation  lies  in  his  power. 
Provide  for  the  widow  and  the  orphans.  Why  else  should 
he  desire  to  hear  me  further?" 

"Unusual  condescension,"  said  Andr6-Louis,  and  quoted : 
"Timeo  Danaos  et  dona  ferentes." 


The  Eloquence  of  M.  de  Vilmorin  25 

"Why?"  asked  Philippe. 

"Let  us  go  and  discover  —  unless  you  consider  that  I 
shall  be  in  the  way." 

Into  a  room  on  the  right,  rendered  private  to  M.  le  Mar- 
quis for  so  long  as  he  should  elect  to  honour  it,  the  young 
men  were  ushered  by  the  host.  A  fire  of  logs  was  burning 
brightly  at  the  room's  far  end,  and  by  this  sat  now  M.  de 
La  Tour  d'Azyr  and  his  cousin,  the  Chevalier  de  Chabril- 
lane.  Both  rose  as  M.  de  Vilmorin  came  in.  Andre-Louis 
following,  paused  to  close  the  door. 

"You  oblige  me  by  your  prompt  courtesy,  M.  de  Vilmorin," 
said  the  Marquis,  but  in  a  tone  so  cold  as  to  belie  the 
politeness  of  his  words.  "A  chair,  I  beg.  Ah,  Moreau?" 
The  note  was  frigidly  interrogative.  "He  accompanies  you, 
monsieur?"  he  asked. 

"If  you  please,  M.  le  Marquis." 

"Why  not?  Find  yourself  a  seat,  Moreau."  He  spoke 
over  his  shoulder  as  to  a  lackey. 

"It  is  good  of  you,  monsieur,"  said  Philippe,  "to  have 
offered  me  this  opportunity  of  continuing  the  subject  that 
took  me  so  fruitlessly,  as  it  happens,  to  Gavrillac." 

The  Marquis  crossed  his  legs,  and  held  one  of  his  fine 
hands  to  the  blaze.  He  replied,  without  troubling  to  turn 
to  the  young  man,  who  was  slightly  behind  him. 

"The  goodness  of  my  request  we  will  leave  out  of  question 
for  the  moment,"  said  he,  darkly,  and  M.  de  Chabrillane 
laughed.  Andr6-Louis  thought  him  easily  moved  to  mirth, 
and  almost  envied  him  the  faculty. 

"But  I  am  grateful,"  Philippe  insisted,  "that  you  should 
condescend  to  hear  me  plead  their  cause." 

The  Marquis  stared  at  him  over  his  shoulder.  "Whose 
cause?"  quoth  he. 

"Why,  the  cause  of  the  widow  and  orphans  of  this  un- 
fortunate Mabey." 

The  Marquis  looked  from  Vilmorin  to  the  Chevalier,  and 
again  the  Chevalier  laughed,  slapping  his  leg  this  time. 

"I  think,"  said  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr,  slowly,  "that  we 


26  The  Robe 

are  at  cross-purposes.  I  asked  you  to  come  here  because  the 
Chateau  de  Gavrillac  was  hardly  a  suitable  place  in  which 
to  carry  our  discussion  further,  and  because  I  hesitated  to 
incommode  you  by  suggesting  that  you  should  come  all  the 
way  to  Azyr.  But  my  object  is  connected  with  certain  ex- 
pressions that  you  let  fall  up  there.  It  is  on  the  subject  of 
those  expressions,  monsieur,  that  I  would  hear  you  further  — 
if  you  will  honour  me." 

Andr6-Louis  began  to  apprehend  that  there  was  some- 
thing sinister  in  the  air.  He  was  a  man  of  quick  intuitions, 
quicker  far  than  those  of  M.  de  Vilmorin,  who  evinced  no 
more  than  a  mild  surprise. 

"I  am  at  a  loss,  monsieur,"  said  he.  "To  what  expres- 
sions does  monsieur  allude?" 

"It  seems,  monsieur,  that  I  must  refresh  your  memory." 
The  Marquis  crossed  his  legs,  and  swung  sideways  on  his 
chair,  so  that  at  last  he  directly  faced  M.  de  Vilmorin. 
"You  spoke,  monsieur  —  and  however  mistaken  you  may 
have  been,  you  spoke  very  eloquently,  too  eloquently  al- 
most, it  seemed  to  me  —  of  the  infamy  of  such  a  deed  as 
the  act  of  summary  justice  upon  this  thieving  fellow  Mabey, 
or  whatever  his  name  may  be.  Infamy  was  the  precise  word 
you  used.  You  did  not  retract  that  word  when  I  had  the 
honour  to  inform  you  that  it  was  by  my  orders  that  my 
gamekeeper  Benet  proceeded  as  he  did." 

"If,"  said  M.  de  Vilmorin,  "the  deed  was  infamous,  its 
infamy  is  not  modified  by  the  rank,  however  exalted,  of  the 
person  responsible.  Rather  is  it  aggravated." 

"Ah!"  said  M.  le  Marquis,  and  drew  a  gold  snuffbox  from 
his  pocket.  "You  say, ' if  the  deed  was  infamous,'  monsieur. 
Am  I  to  understand  that  you  are  no  longer  as  convinced  as 
you  appeared  to  be  of  its  infamy?" 

M.  de  Vilmorin's  fine  face  wore  a  look  of  perplexity.  He 
did  not  understand  the  drift  of  this. 

"It  occurs  to  me,  M.  le  Marquis,  in  view  of  your  readi- 
ness to  assume  responsibility,  that  you  must  believe  in  some 
justification  for  the  deed  which  is  not  apparent  to  myself." 


The  Eloquence  of  M.  de  Vilmorin  27 

"That  is  better.  That  is  distinctly  better."  The  Mar- 
quis took  snuff  delicately,  dusting  the  fragments  from  the 
fine  lace  at  his  throat.  "You  realize  that  with  an  imperfect 
understanding  of  these  matters,  not  being  yourself  a  land- 
owner, you  may  have  rushed  to  unjustifiable  conclusions. 
That  is  indeed  the  case.  May  it  be  a  warning  to  you,  mon- 
sieur. When  I  tell  you  that  for  months  past  I  have  been 
annoyed  by  similar  depredations,  you  will  perhaps  under- 
stand that  it  had  become  necessary  to  employ  a  deterrent  suf- 
ficiently strong  to  put  an  end  to  them.  Now  that  the  risk 
is  known,  I  do  not  think  there  will  be  any  more  prowling  in 
my  coverts.  And  there  is  more  in  it  than  that,  M.  de  Vil- 
morin. It  is  not  the  poaching  that  annoys  me  so  much  as 
the  contempt  for  my  absolute  and  inviolable  rights.  There 
is,  monsieur,  as  you  cannot  fail  to  have  observed,  an  evil 
spirit  of  insubordination  in  the  air,  and  there  is  one  only 
way  in  which  to  meet  it.  To  tolerate  it,  in  however  slight 
a  degree,  to  show  leniency,  however  leniently  disposed, 
would  entail  having  recourse  to  still  harsher  measures  to- 
morrow. You  understand  me,  I  am  sure,  and  you  will  also, 
I  am  sure,  appreciate  the  condescension  of  what  amounts 
to  an  explanation  from  me  where  I  cannot  admit  that 
any  explanations  were  due.  If  anything  in  what  I  have 
said  is  still  obscure  to  you,  I  refer  you  to  the  game  laws, 
which  your  lawyer  friend  there  will  expound  for  you  at 
need." 

With  that  the  gentleman  swung  round  again  to  face  the 
fire.  It  appeared  to  convey  the  intimation  that  the  inter- 
view was  at  an  end.  And  yet  this  was  not  by  any  means  the 
intimation  that  it  conveyed  to  the  watchful,  puzzled,  vaguely 
uneasy  Andre-Louis.  It  was,  thought  he,  a  very  curious,  a 
very  suspicious  oration.  It  affected  to  explain,  with  a  polite- 
ness of  terms  and  a  calculated  insolence  of  tone;  whilst  in 
fact  it  could  only  serve  to  stimulate  and  goad  a  man  of 
M.  de  Vilmorin's  opinions.  And  that  is  precisely  what  it 
did.  He  rose. 

"Are  there  in  the  world  no  laws  but  game  laws?"  he  de- 


28  The  Robe 

manded,  angrily.  "Have  you  never  by  any  chance  heard  of 
the  laws  of  humanity?" 

The  Marquis  sighed  wearily.  "What  have  I  to  do  with  the 
laws  of  humanity?"  he  wondered. 

M.  de  Vilmorin  looked  at  him  a  moment  in  speechless 
amazement. 

"Nothing,  M.  le  Marquis.  That  is  —  alas!  —  too  ob- 
vious. I  hope  you  will  remember  it  in  the  hour  when  you 
may  wish  to  appeal  to  those  laws  which  you  now  deride." 

M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr  threw  back  his  head  sharply,  his 
high-bred  face  imperious. 

"Now  what  precisely  shall  that  mean?  It  is  not  the  first 
time  to-day  that  you  have  made  use  of  dark  sayings  that  I 
could  almost  believe  to  veil  the  presumption  of  a  threat." 

"Not  a  threat,  M.  le  Marquis  —  a  warning.  A  warning 
that  such  deeds  as  these  against  God's  creatures  .  .  .  Oh, 
you  may  sneer,  monsieur,  but  they  are  God's  creatures,  even 
as  you  or  I  —  neither  more  nor  less,  deeply  though  the 
reflection  may  wound  your  pride.  In  His  eyes  .  .  ." 

"Of  your  charity,  spare  me  a  sermon,  M.  I'abb6!" 

"You  mock,  monsieur.  You  laugh.  Will  you  laugh,  I 
wonder,  when  God  presents  His  reckoning  to  you  for  the 
blood  and  plunder  with  which  your  hands  are  full?" 

"Monsieur!"  The  word,  sharp  as  the  crack  of  a  whip, 
was  from  M.  de  Chabrillane,  who  bounded  to  his  feet. 
But  instantly  the  Marquis  repressed  him. 

"Sit  down,  Chevalier.  You  are  interrupting  M.  1'abbe, 
and  I  should  like  to  hear  him  further.  He  interests  me  pro- 
foundly." 

In  the  background  Andr6-Louis,  too,  had  risen,  brought 
to  his  feet  by  alarm,  by  the  evil  that  he  saw  written  on  the 
handsome  face  of  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr.  He  approached, 
and  touched  his  friend  upon  the  arm. 

"Better  be  going,  Philippe,"  said  he. 

But  M.  de  Vilmorin,  caught  in  the  relentless  grip  of  pas- 
sions long  repressed,  was  being  hurried  by  them  recklessly 
along. 


The  Eloquence  of  M.  de  Vilmorin  29 

"Oh,  monsieur,"  said  he,  "consider  what  you  are  and 
what  you  will  be.  Consider  how  you  and  your  kind  live 
by  abuses,  and  consider  the  harvest  that  abuses  must  ul- 
timately bring." 

"Revolutionist!"  said  M.  le  Marquis,  contemptuously. 
"You  have  the  effrontery  to  stand  before  my  face  and  offer 
me  this  stinking  cant  of  your  modern  so-called  intellec- 
tuals!" 

"  Is  it  cant,  monsieur?  Do  you  think  —  do  you  believe  in 
your  soul  —  that  it  is  cant?  Is  it  cant  that  the  feudal  grip 
is  on  all  things  that  live,  crushing  them  like  grapes  in  the 
press,  to  its  own  profit?  Does  it  not  exercise  its  rights  upon 
the  waters  of  the  river,  the  fire  that  bakes  the  poor  man's 
bread  of  grass  and  barley,  on  the  wind  that  turns  the  mill? 
The  peasant  cannot  take  a  step  upon  the  road,  cross  a 
crazy  bridge  over  a  river,  buy  an  ell  of  cloth  in  the  village 
market,  without  meeting  feudal  rapacity,  without  being 
taxed  in  feudal  dues.  Is  not  that  enough,  M.  le  Marquis? 
Must  you  also  demand  his  wretched  life  in  payment  for  the 
least  infringement  of  your  sacred  privileges,  careless  of 
what  widows  or  orphans  you  dedicate  to  woe?  Will  naught 
content  you  but  that  your  shadow  must  lie  like  a  curse  upon 
the  land?  And  do  you  think  in  your  pride  that  France,  this 
Job  among  the  nations,  will  suffer  it  forever?" 

He  paused  as  if  for  a  reply.  But  none  came.  The  Mar- 
quis considered  him,  strangely  silent,  a  half  smile  of  disdain 
at  the  corners  of  his  lips,  an  ominous  hardness  in  his  eyes. 

Again  Andre-Louis  tugged  at  his  friend's  sleeve. 

"Philippe." 

Philippe  shook  him  off,  and  plunged  on,  fanatically. 

"Do  you  see  nothing  of  the  gathering  clouds  that  herald 
the  coming  of  the  storm?  You  imagine,  perhaps,  that  these 
States  General  summoned  by  M.  Necker,  and  promised 
for  next  year,  are  to  do  nothing  but  devise  fresh  means  of 
extortion  to  liquidate  the  bankruptcy  of  the  State?  You 
delude  yourselves,  as  you  shall  find.  The  Third  Estate, 
which  you  despise,  will  prove  itself  the  preponderating  force, 


30  The  Robe 

and  it  will  find  a  way  to  make  an  end  of  this  canker  of 
privilege  that  is  devouring  the  vitals  of  this  unfortunate 
country." 

M.  le  Marquis  shifted  in  his  chair,  and  spoke  at  last. 

"You  have,  monsieur,"  said  he,  "a  very  dangerous  gift 
of  eloquence.  And  it  is  of  yourself  rather  than  of  your  sub- 
ject. For  after  all,  what  do  you  offer  me?  A  rechauffe  of  the 
dishes  served  to  out-at-elbow  enthusiasts  in  the  provincial 
literary  chambers,  compounded  of  the  effusions  of  your 
Voltaires  and  Jean- Jacques  and  such  dirty-fingered  scrib- 
blers. You  have  not  among  all  your  philosophers  one  with 
the  wit  to  understand  that  we  are  an  order  consecrated  by 
antiquity,  that  for  our  rights  and  privileges  we  have  behind 
us  the  authority  of  centuries." 

"Humanity,  monsieur,"  Philippe  replied,  "is  more  an- 
cient than  nobility.  Human  rights  are  contemporary  with 
man." 

The  Marquis  laughed  and  shrugged. 

"That  is  the  answer  I  might  have  expected.  It  has  the 
right  note  of  cant  that  distinguishes  the  philosophers." 

And  then  M.  de  Chabrillane  spoke. 

"You  go  a  long  way  round,"  he  criticized  his  cousin,  on 
a  note  of  impatience. 

"But  I  am  getting  there,"  he  was  answered.  "I  desired 
to  make  quite  certain  first." 

"Faith,  you  should  have  no  doubt  by  now." 

"I  have  none."  The  Marquis  rose,  and  turned  again  to 
M.  de  Vilmorin,  who  had  understood  nothing  of  that  brief 
exchange.  "M.  I'abb6,"  said  he  once  more,  "you  have  a 
very  dangerous  gift  of  eloquence.  I  can  conceive  of  men 
being  swayed  by  it.  Had  you  been  born  a  gentleman,  you 
would  not  so  easily  have  acquired  these  false  views  that  you 
express." 

M.  de  Vilmorin  stared  blankly,  uncomprehending. 

"Had  I  been  born  a  gentleman,  do  you  say?"  quoth  he, 
in  a  slow,  bewildered  voice.  "But  I  was  born  a  gentleman. 
My  race  is  as  old,  my  blood  as  good  as  yours,  monsieur." 


The  Eloquence  of  M.  de  Vilmorin  31 

From  M.  le  Marquis  there  was  a  slight  play  of  eyebrows, 
a  vague,  indulgent  smile.  His  dark,  liquid  eyes  looked 
squarely  into  the  face  of  M.  de  Vilmorin. 

"You  have  been  deceived  in  that,  I  fear." 

"Deceived?" 

"Your  sentiments  betray  the  indiscretion  of  which  ma- 
dame  your  mother  must  have  been  guilty." 

The  brutally  affronting  words  were  sped  beyond  recall, 
and  the  lips  that  had  uttered  them,  coldly,  as  if  they  had 
been  the  merest  commonplace,  remained  calm  and  faintly 
sneering. 

A  dead  silence  followed.  Andre-Louis'  wits  were  numbed. 
He  stood  aghast,  all  thought  suspended  in  him,  what  time 
M.  de  Vilmorin's  eyes  continued  fixed  upon  M.  de  La  Tour 
d'Azyr's,  as  if  searching  there  for  a  meaning  that  eluded 
him.  Quite  suddenly  he  understood  the  vile  affront.  The 
blood  leapt  to  his  face,  fire  blazed  in  his  gentle  eyes.  A  con- 
vulsive quiver  shook  him.  Then,  with  an  inarticulate  cry, 
he  leaned  forward,  and  with  his  open  hand  struck  M.  le 
Marquis  full  and  hard  upon  his  sneering  face. 

In  a  flash  M.  de  Chabrillane  was  on  his  feet,  between  the 
two  men. 

Too  late  Andre-Louis  had  seen  the  trap.  La  Tour 
d'Azyr's  words  were  but  as  a  rriove  in  a  game  of  chess,  calcu- 
lated to  exasperate  his  opponent  into  some  such  counter- 
move  as  this  —  a  counter-move  that  left  him  entirely  at 
the  other's  mercy. 

M.  le  Marquis  looked  on,  very  white  save  where  M.  de 
Vilmorin's  finger-prints  began  slowly  to  colour  his  face;  but 
he  said  nothing  more.  Instead,  it  was  M.  de  Chabrillane 
who  now  did  the  talking,  taking  up  his  preconcerted  part  in 
this  vile  game. 

"You  realize,  monsieur,  what  you  have  done,"  said  he, 
coldly,  to  Philippe.  "And  you  realize,  of  course,  what  must 
inevitably  follow." 

M.  de  Vilmorin  had  realized  nothing.  The  poor  young 
man  had  acted  upon  impulse,  upon  the  instinct  of  decency 


32 The  Robe          

and  honour,  never  counting  the  consequences.  But  he  real- 
ized them  now  at  the  sinister  invitation  of  M.  de  Chabrillane, 
and  if  he  desired  to  avoid  these  consequences,  it  was  out  of 
respect  for  his  priestly  vocation,  which  strictly  forbade  such 
adjustments  of  disputes  as  M.  de  Chabrillane  was  clearly 
thrusting  upon  him. 

He  drew  back.  "Let  one  affront  wipe  out  the  other," 
said  he,  in  a  dull  voice.  "The  balance  is  still  in  M.  le  Mar- 
quis's favour.  Let  that  content  him." 

"  Impossible."  The  Chevalier's  lips  came  together  tightly. 
Thereafter  he  was  suavity  itself,  but  very  firm.  "A  blow 
has  been  struck,  monsieur.  I  think  I  am  correct  in  saying 
that  such  a  thing  has  never  happened  before  to  M.  le  Mar- 
quis in  all  his  life.  If  you  felt  yourself  affronted,  you  had 
but  to  ask  the  satisfaction  due  from  one  gentleman  to  an- 
other. Your  action  would  seem  to  confirm  the  assumption 
that  you  found  so  offensive.  But  it  does  not  on  that  account 
render  you  immune  from  the  consequences." 

It  was,  you  see,  M.  de  Chabrillane's  part  to  heap  coals 
upon  this  fire,  to  make  quite  sure  that  their  victim  should 
not  escape  them. 

"I  desire  no  immunity,"  flashed  back  the  young  semi- 
narist, stung  by  this  fresh  goad.  After  all,  he  was  nobly 
born,  and  the  traditions  of  his  class  were  strong  upon  him  — 
stronger  far  than  the  seminarist  schooling  in  humility.  He 
owed  it  to  himself,  to  his  honour,  to  be  killed  rather  than 
avoid  the  consequences  of  the  thing  he  had  done. 

"But  he  does  not  wear  a  sword,  messieurs!"  cried  Andr6- 
Louis,  aghast. 

"That  is  easily  amended.  He  may  have  the  loan  of 
mine." 

"I  mean,  messieurs,"  Andr£-Louis  insisted,  between  fear 
for  his  friend  and  indignation,  "that  it  is  not  his  habit  to 
wear  a  sword,  that  he  has  never  worn  one,  that  he  is  un- 
tutored in  its  uses.  He  is  a  seminarist  —  a  postulant  for 
holy  orders,  already  half  a  priest,  and  so  forbidden  from 
such  an  engagement  as  you  propose." 


The  Eloquence  of  M.  de  Vilmorin  33 

"All  that  he  should  have  remembered  before  he  struck 
a  blow,"  said  M.  de  Chabrillane,  politely. 

"The  blow  was  deliberately  provoked,"  raged  Andr6- 
Louis.  Then  he  recovered  himself,  though  the  other's 
haughty  stare  had  no  part  in  that  recovery.  "O  my  God,  I 
talk  in  vain !  How  is  one  to  argue  against  a  purpose  formed ! 
Come  away,  Philippe.  Don't  you  see  the  trap  .  .  ." 

M.  de  Vilmorin  cut  him  short,  and  flung  him  off.  "Be 
quiet,  Andr£.  M.  le  Marquis  is  entirely  in  the  right." 

"M.  le  Marquis  is  in  the  right?"  Andre-Louis  let  his 
arms  fall  helplessly.  This  man  he  loved  above  all  other 
living  men  was  caught  in  the  snare  of  the  world's  insanity. 
He  was  baring  his  breast  to  the  knife  for  the  sake  of  a 
vague,  distorted  sense  of  the  honour  due  to  himself.  It  was 
not  that  he  did  not  see  the  trap.  It  was  that  his  honour 
compelled  him  to  disdain  consideration  of  it.  To  Andr6- 
Louis  in  that  moment  he  seemed  a  singularly  tragic  figure. 
Noble,  perhaps,  but  very  pitiful. 


CHAPTER  IV 
THE  HERITAGE 

IT  was  M.  de  Vilmorin's  desire  that  the  matter  should  be 
settled  out  of  hand.  In  this  he  was  at  once  objective  and 
subjective.  A  prey  to  emotions  sadly  at  conflict  with  his 
priestly  vocation,  he  was  above  all  in  haste  to  have  done, 
so  that  he  might  resume  a  frame  of  mind  more  proper  to  it. 
Also  he  feared  himself  a  little;  by  which  I  mean  that  his 
honour  feared  his  nature.  The  circumstances  of  his  edu- 
cation, and  the  goal  that  for  some  years  now  he  had  kept 
in  view,  had  robbed  him  of  much  of  that  spirited  brutality 
that  is  the  birthright  of  the  male.  He  had  grown  timid  and 
gentle  as  a  woman.  Aware  of  it,  he  feared  that  once  the  heat 
of  his  passion  was  spent  he  might  betray  a  dishonouring 
weakness  in  the  ordeal. 

M.  le  Marquis,  on  his  side,  was  no  less  eager  for  an  im- 
mediate settlement;  and  since  they  had  M.  de  Chabrillane  to 
act  for  his  cousin,  and  Andr6-Louis  to  serve  as  witness  for 
M.  de  Vilmorin,  there  was  nothing  to  delay  them. 

And  so,  within  a  few  minutes,  all  arrangements  were  con- 
cluded, and  you  behold  that  sinisterly  intentioned  little 
group  of  four  assembled  in  the  afternoon  sunshine  on  the 
bowling-green  behind  the  inn.  They  were  entirely  private, 
screened  more  or  less  from  the  windows  of  the  house  by  a 
ramage  of  trees,  which,  if  leafless  now,  was  at  least  dense 
enough  to  provide  an  effective  lattice. 

There  were  no  formalities  over  measurements  of  blades  or 
selection  of  ground.  M.  le  Marquis  removed  his  sword-belt 
and  scabbard,  but  declined  —  not  considering  it  worth 
while  for  the  sake  of  so  negligible  an  opponent  —  to  divest 
himself  either  of  his  shoes  or  his  coat.  Tall,  lithe,  and  ath- 
letic, he  stood  to  face  the  no  less  tall,  but  very  delicate 
and  frail,  M.  de  Vilmorin.  The  latter  also  disdained  to  make 


The  Heritage  35 


any  of  the  usual  preparations.  Since  he  recognized  that  it 
could  avail  him  nothing  to  strip,  he  came  on  guard  fully 
dressed,  two  hectic  spots  above  the  cheek-bones  burning  on 
his  otherwise  grey  face. 

M.  de  Chabrillane,  leaning  upon  a  cane  —  for  he  had  re- 
linquished his  sword  to  M.  de  Vilmorin  —  looked  on  with 
quiet  interest.  Facing  him  on  the  other  side  of  the  com- 
batants stood  Andre-Louis,  the  palest  of  the  four,  staring 
from  fevered  eyes,  twisting  and  untwisting  clammy  hands. 

His  every  instinct  was  to  fling  himself  between  the  an- 
tagonists, to  protest  against  and  frustrate  this  meeting. 
That  sane  impulse  was  curbed,  however,  by  the  conscious- 
ness of  its  futility.  To  calm  him,  he  clung  to  the  conviction 
that  the  issue  could  not  really  be  very  serious.  If  the  obli- 
gations of  Philippe's  honour  compelled  him  to  cross  swords 
with  the  man  he  had  struck,  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr's  birth 
compelled  him  no  less  to  do  no  serious  hurt  to  the  unfledged 
lad  he  had  so  grievously  provoked.  M.  le  Marquis,  after  all, 
was  a  man  of  honour.  He  could  intend  no  more  than  to  ad- 
minister a  lesson ;  sharp,  perhaps,  but  one  by  which  his  op- 
ponent must  live  to  profit.  Andre-Louis  clung  obstinately 
to  that  for  comfort. 

Steel  beat  on  steel,  and  the  men  engaged.  The  Marquis 
presented  to  his  opponent  the  narrow  edge  of  his  upright 
body,  his  knees  slightly  flexed  and  converted  into  living 
springs,  whilst  M.  de  Vilmorin  stood  squarely,  a  full  target, 
his  knees  wooden.  Honour  and  the  spirit  of  fair  play  alike 
cried  out  against  such  a  match. 

The  encounter  was  very  short,  of  course.  In  youth,  Phi- 
lippe had  received  the  tutoring  in  sword-play  that  was  given 
to  every  boy  born  into  his  station  of  life.  And  so  he  knew 
at  least  the  rudiments  of  what  was  now  expected  of  him. 
But  what  could  rudiments  avail  him  here?  Three  disen- 
gages completed  the  exchanges,  and  then  without  any  haste 
the  Marquis  slid  his  right  foot  along  the  moist  turf,  his  long, 
graceful  body  extending  itself  in  a  lunge  that  went  under 
M.  de  Vilmorin's  clumsy  guard,  and  with  the  utmost 


36  The  Robe 

deliberation  he  drove  his  blade  through  the  young  man's 
vitals. 

Andr6-Louis  sprang  forward  just  in  time  to  catch  his 
friend's  body  under  the  armpits  as  it  sank.  Then,  his  own 
legs  bending  beneath  the  weight  of  it,  he  went  down  with 
his  burden  until  he  was  kneeling  on  the  damp  turf.  Phi- 
lippe's limp  head  lay  against  Andre-Louis'  left  shoulder; 
Philippe's  relaxed  arms  trailed  at  his  sides ;  the  blood  welled 
and  bubbled  from  the  ghastly  wound  to  saturate  the  poor 
lad's  garments. 

With  white  face  and  twitching  lips,  Andr£-Louis  looked 
up  at  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr,  who  stood  surveying  his  work 
with  a  countenance  of  grave  but  remorseless  interest. 

"You  have  killed  him!"  cried  Andr6-Louis. 

"Of  course." 

The  Marquis  ran  a  lace  handkerchief  along  his  blade  to 
wipe  it.  As  he  let  the  dainty  fabric  fall,  he  explained  him- 
self. "He  had,  as  I  told  him,  a  too  dangerous  gift  of  elo- 
quence." 

And  he  turned  away,  leaving  completest  understanding 
with  Andr6-Louis.  Still  supporting  the  limp,  draining  body, 
the  young  man  called  to  him. 

"Come  back,  you  cowardly  murderer,  and  make  yourself 
quite  safe  by  killing  me  too!" 

The  Marquis  half  turned,  his  face  dark  with  anger.  Then 
M.  de  Chabrillane  set  a  restraining  hand  upon  his  arm.  Al- 
though a  party  throughout  to  the  deed,  the  Chevalier  was 
a  little  appalled  now  that  it  was  done.  He  had  not  the  high 
stomach  of  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr,  and  he  was  a  good  deal 
younger. 

"Come  away,"  he  said.  "The  lad  is  raving.  They  were 
friends." 

"You  heard  what  he  said?"  quoth  the  Marquis. 

"Nor  can  he,  or  you,  or  any  man  deny  it,"  flung  back 
Andr£-Louis.  "Yourself,  monsieur,  you  made  confession 
when  you  gave  me  now  the  reason  why  you  killed  him.  You 
did  it  because  you  feared  him." 


The  Heritage  37 

"If  that  were  true  —  what,  then?"  asked  the  great 
gentleman. 

"Do  you  ask?  Do  you  understand  of  life  and  humanity 
nothing  but  how  to  wear  a  coat  and  dress  your  hair  —  oh, 
yes,  and  to  handle  weapons  against  boys  and  priests?  Have 
you  no  mind  to  think,  no  soul  into  which  you  can  turn  its 
vision?  Must  you  be  told  that  it  is  a  coward's  part  to  kill 
the  thing  he  fears,  and  doubly  a  coward's  part  to  kill  in  this 
way?  Had  you  stabbed  him  in  the  back  with  a  knife,  you 
would  have  shown  the  courage  of  your  vileness.  It  would 
have  been  a  vileness  undisguised.  But  you  feared  the  con- 
sequences of  that,  powerful  as  you  are;  and  so  you  shelter 
your  cowardice  under  the  pretext  of  a  duel." 

The  Marquis  shook  off  his  cousin's  hand,  and  took  a  step 
forward,  holding  now  his  sword  like  a  whip.  But  again  the 
Chevalier  caught  and  held  him. 

"No,  no,  Gervais!  Let  be,  in  God's  name!" 

"Let  him  come,  monsieur,"  raved  Andre-Louis,  his  voice 
thick  and  concentrated.  "Let  him  complete  his  coward's 
work  on  me,  and  thus  make  himself  safe  from  a  coward's 
wages." 

M.  de  Chabrillane  let  his  cousin  go.  He  came  white  to  the 
lips,  his  eyes  glaring  at  the  lad  who  so  recklessly  insulted 
him.  And  then  he  checked.  It  may  be  that  he  remembered 
suddenly  the  relationship  in  which  this  young  man  was 
popularly  believed  to  stand  to  the  Seigneur  de  Gavrillac,  and 
the  well-known  affection  in  which  the  Seigneur  held  him. 
And  so  he  may  have  realized  that  if  he  pushed  this  matter 
further,  he  might  find  himself  upon  the  horns  of  a  dilemma. 
He  would  be  confronted  with  the  alternatives  of  shedding 
more  blood, 'and  so  embroiling  himself  with  the  Lord  of 
Gavrillac  at  a  time  when  that  gentleman's  friendship  was 
of  the  first  importance  to  him,  or  else  of  withdrawing  with 
such  hurt  to  his  dignity  as  must  impair  his  authority  in  the 
countryside  hereafter. 

Be  it  so  or  otherwise,  the  fact  remains  that  he  stopped 
short;  then,  with  an  incoherent  ejaculation,  between  anger 


38  The  Robe 

and  contempt,  he  tossed  his  arms,  turned  on  his  heel  and 
strode  off  quickly  with  his  cousin. 

When  the  landlord  and  his  people  came,  they  found 
Andre-Louis,  his  arms  about  the  body  of  his  dead  friend, 
murmuring  passionately  into  the  deaf  ear  that  rested  almost 
against  his  lips: 

"Philippe!  Speak  to  me,  Philippe!  Philippe  .  .  .  Don't 
you  hear  me?  O  God  of  Heaven!  Philippe!" 

At  a  glance  they  saw  that  here  neither  priest  nor  doctor 
could  avail.  The  cheek  that  lay  against  Andre-Louis's  was 
leaden-hued,  the  half-open  eyes  were  glazed,  and  there  was 
a  little  froth  of  blood  upon  the  vacuously  parted  lips. 

Half  blinded  by  tears  Andre-Louis  stumbled  after  them 
when  they  bore  the  body  into  the  inn.  Upstairs  in  the  little 
room  to  which  they  conveyed  it,  he  knelt  by  the  bed,  and 
holding  the  dead  man's  hand  in  both  his  own,  he  swore  to 
him  out  of  his  impotent  rage  that  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr 
should  pay  a  bitter  price  for  this. 

"It  was  your  eloquence  he  feared,  Philippe,"  he  said. 
"Then  if  I  can  get  no  justice  for  this  deed,  at  least  it  shall 
be  fruitless  to  him.  The  thing  he  feared  in  you,  he  shall  fear 
in  me.  He  feared  that  men  might  be  swayed  by  your  elo- 
quence to  the  undoing  of  such  things  as  himself.  Men  shall 
be  swayed  by  it  still.  For  your  eloquence  and  your  argu- 
ments shall  be  my  heritage  from  you.  I  will  make  them  my 
own.  It  matters  nothing  that  I  do  not  believe  in  your  gospel 
of  freedom.  I  know  it  —  every  word  of  it;  that  is  all  that 
matters  to  our  purpose,  yours  and  mine.  If  all  else  fails, 
your  thoughts  shall  find  expression  in  my  living  tongue. 
Thus  at  least  we  shall  have  frustrated  his  vile  aim  to  still 
the  voice  he  feared.  It  shall  profit  him  nothing  to  have 
your  blood  upon  his  soul.  That  voice  in  you  would  never 
half  so  relentlessly  have  hounded  him  and  his  as  it  shall  in 
me  —  if  all  else  fails." 

It  was  an  exulting  thought.  It  calmed  him ;  it  soothed  his 
grief,  and  he  began  very  softly  to  pray.  And  then  his  heart 
trembled  as  he  considered  that  Philippe,  a  man  of  peace. 


The  Heritage  39 


almost  a  priest,  an  apostle  of  Christianity,  had  gone  to  his 
Maker  with  the  sin  of  anger  on  his  soul.  It  was  horrible.  Yet 
God  would  see  the  righteousness  of  that  anger.  And  in  no 
case  —  be  man's  interpretation  of  Divinity  what  it  might  — 
could  that  one  sin  outweigh  the  loving  good  that  Philippe 
had  ever  practised,  the  noble  purity  of  his  great  heart.  God, 
after  all,  reflected  Andre-Louis,  was  not  a  grand-seigneur. 


CHAPTER  V 
THE  LORD  OF  GAVRILLAC 

FOR  the  second  time  that  day  Andre-Louis  set  out  for  the 
chateau,  walking  briskly,  and  heeding  not  at  all  the  curious 
eyes  that  followed  him  through  the  village,  and  the  whisper- 
ings that  marked  his  passage  through  the  people,  all  agog 
by  now  with  that  day's  event  in  which  he  had  been  an  actor. 

He  was  ushered  by  Benoit,  the  elderly  body-servant, 
rather  grandiloquently  called  the  seneschal,  into  the  ground- 
floor  room  known  traditionally  as  the  library.  It  still  con- 
tained several  shelves  of  neglected  volumes,  from  which  it 
derived  its  title,  but  implements  of  the  chase  —  fowling- 
pieces,  powder-horns,  hunting-bags,  sheath-knives  —  ob- 
truded far  more  prominently  than  those  of  study.  The 
furniture  was  massive,  of  oak  richly  carved,  and  belonging  to 
another  age.  Great  massive  oak  beams  crossed  the  rather 
lofty  whitewashed  ceiling. 

Here  the  squat  Seigneur  de  Gavrillac  was  restlessly  pac- 
ing when  Andr6-Louis  was  introduced.  He  was  already  in- 
formed, as  he  announced  at  once,  of  what  had  taken  place  at 
the  Breton  Arme.  M.  de  Chabrillane  had  just  left  him,  and 
he  confessed  himself  deeply  grieved  and  deeply  perplexed. 

"The  pity  of  it!  "he  said.  "The  pity  of  it!"  He  bowed  his 
enormous  head.  "So  estimable  a  young  man,  and  so  full  of 
promise.  Ah,  this  La  Tour  d'Azyr  is  a  hard  man,  and  he 
feels  very  strongly  in  these  matters.  He  may  be  right.  I 
don't  know.  I  have  never  killed  a  man  for  holding  different 
views  from  mine.  In  fact,  I  have  never  killed  a  man  $t  all. 
It  is  n't  in  my  nature.  I  should  n't  sleep  of  nights  if  I  did. 
But  men  are  differently  made." 

"The  question,  monsieur  my  godfather,"  said  Andre- 
Louis,  "is  what  is  to  be  done."  He  was  quite  calm  and  self- 
possessed,  but  very  white. 


The  Lord  of  Gavrillac  41 

M.  de  Kercadiou  stared  at  him  blankly  out  of  his  pale 
eyes. 

"Why,  what  the  devil  is  there  to  do?  From  what  I  am 
told,  Vilmorin  went  so  far  as  to  strike  M.  le  Marquis." 

"Under  the  very  grossest  provocation." 

"Which  he  himself  provoked  by  his  revolutionary  lan- 
guage. The  poor  lad's  head  was  full  of  this  encyclopaedist 
trash.  It  comes  of  too  much  reading.  I  have  never  set  much 
store  by  books,  Andr6;  and  I  have  never  known  anything 
but  trouble  to  come  out  of  learning.  It  unsettles  a  man.  It 
complicates  his  views  of  life,  destroys  the  simplicity  which 
makes  for  peace  of  mind  and  happiness.  Let  this  miserable 
affair  be  a  warning  to  you,  Andr6.  You  are,  yourself,  too 
prone  to  these  new-fashioned  speculations  upon  a  different 
constitution  of  the  social  order.  You  see  what  comes  of  it. 
A  fine,  estimable  young  man,  the  only  prop  of  his  widowed 
mother  too,  forgets  himself,  his  position,  his  duty  to  that 
mother  —  everything;  and  goes  and  gets  himself  killed  like 
this.  It  is  infernally  sad.  On  my  soul  it  is  sad."  He  pro- 
duced a  handkerchief,  and  blew  his  nose  with  vehemence. 

Andr£-Louis  felt  a  tightening  of  his  heart,  a  lessening  of 
the  hopes,  never  too  sanguine,  which  he  had  founded  upon 
his  godfather. 

"Your  criticisms,"  he  said,  "are  all  for  the  conduct  of  the 
dead,  and  none  for  that  of  the  murderer.  It  does  not  seem 
possible  that  you  should  be  in  sympathy  with  such  a  crime." 

"Crime?"  shrilled  M.  de  Kercadiou.  "My  God,  boy,  you 
are  speaking  of  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr." 

"I  am,  and  of  the  abominable  murder  he  has  com- 
mitted ..." 

"Stop!"  M.  de  Kercadiou  was  very  emphatic.  "lean- 
not  permit  that  you  apply  such  terms  to  him.  I  cannot  per- 
mit it.  M.  le  Marquis  is  my  friend,  and  is  likely  very  soon 
to  stand  in  a  still  closer  relationship." 

"Notwithstanding  this?"  asked  Andr6-Louis. 

M.  de  Kercadiou  was  frankly  impatient. 

"Why,  what  has  this  to  do  with  it?  I  may  deplore  it.  But 


42  The  Robe 

I  have  no  right  to  condemn  it.  It  is  a  common  way  of  ad- 
justing differences  between  gentlemen." 

"You  really  believe  that?" 

"What  the  devil  do  you  imply,  Andr6?  Should  I  say  a 
thing  that  I  don't  believe?  You  begin  to  make  me  angry." 

"  'Thou  shalt  not  kill,'  is  the  King's  law  as  well  as  God's." 

"You  are  determined  to  quarrel  with  me,  I  think.  It  was 
a  duel  .  .  ." 

Andr£-Louis  interrupted  him.  "It  is  no  more  a  duel  than 
if  it  had  been  fought  with  pistols  of  which  only  M.  le  Mar- 
quis's was  loaded.  He  invited  Philippe  to  discuss  the  matter 
further,  with  the  deliberate  intent  of  forcing  a  quarrel  upon 
him  and  killing  him.  Be  patient  with  me,  monsieur  my  god- 
father. I  am  not  telling  you  [of  what  I  imagine  but  what 
M.  le  Marquis  himself  admitted  to  me." 

Dominated  a  little  by  the  young  man's  earnestness,  M.  de 
Kercadiou's  pale  eyes  fell  away.  He  turned  with  a  shrug, 
and  sauntered  over  to  the  window. 

"  It  would  need  a  court  of  honour  to  decide  such  an  issue. 
And  we  have  no  courts  of  honour,"  he  said. 

"But  we  have  courts  of  justice." 

With  returning  testiness  the  seigneur  swung  round  to 
face  him  again.  "And  what  court  of  justice,  do  you  think, 
would  listen  to  such  a  plea  as  you  appear  to  have  in  mind?" 

"There  is  the  court  of  the  King's  Lieutenant  at  Rennes." 

"And  do  you  think  the  King's  Lieutenant  would  listen  to 
you?" 

"Not  to  me,  perhaps,  monsieur.  But  if  you  were  to  bring 
the  plaint  .  .  ." 

"I  bring  the  plaint?"  M.  de  Kercadiou's  pale  eyes  were 
wide  with  horror  of  the  suggestion. 

"The  thing  happened  here  on  your  domain." 

"  I  bring  a  plaint  against  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr !  You  are 
out  of  your  senses,  I  think.  Oh,  you  are  mad ;  as  mad  as  that 
poor  friend  of  yours  who  has  come  to  this  end  through  med- 
dling in  what  did  not  concern  him.  The  language  he  used 
here  to  M.  le  Marquis  on  the  score  of  Mabey  was  of  the  most 


The  Lord  of  Gavrillac  43 

offensive.  Perhaps  you  did  n't  know  that.  It  does  not  at  all 
surprise  me  that  the  Marquis  should  have  desired  satisfac- 
tion." 

"I  see,"  said  Andr£-Louis,  on  a  note  of  hopelessness. 

"You  see?  What  the  devil  do  you  see?" 

"That  I  shall  have  to  depend  upon  myself  alone." 

"And  what  the  devil  do  you  propose  to  do,  if  you  please?" 

"I  shall  go  to  Rennes,  and  lay  the  facts  before  the  King's 
Lieutenant." 

"  He'll  be  too  busy  to  see  you."  And  M.  de  Kercadiou's 
mind  swung  a  trifle  inconsequently,  as  weak  minds  will. 
"There  is  trouble  enough  in  Rennes  already  on  the  score  of 
these  crazy  States  General,  with  which  the  wonderful  M. 
Necker  is  to  repair  the  finances  of  the  kingdom.  As  if  a  ped- 
dling Swiss  bank-clerk,  who  is  also  a  damned  Protestant, 
could  succeed  where  such  men  as  Calonne  and  Brienne  have 
failed." 

"Good-afternoon,  monsieur  my  godfather,"  said  Andr6- 
Louis. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  was  the  querulous  demand. 

"Home  at  present.  To  Rennes  in  the  morning." 

"Wait,  boy,  wait!"  The  squat  little  man  rolled  forward, 
affectionate  concern  on  his  great  ugly  face,  and  he  set  one 
of  his  podgy  hands  on  his  godson's  shoulder.  "Now  listen 
to  me,  Andr6,"  he  reasoned.  "This  is  sheer  knight-errantry 
—  moonshine,  lunacy.  You'll  come  to  no  good  by  it  if  you 
persist.  You've  read  'Don  Quixote,'  and  what  happened 
to  him  when  he  went  tilting  against  windmills.  It's  what 
will  happen  to  you,  neither  more  nor  less.  Leave  things  as 
they  are,  my  boy.  I  would  n't  have  a  mischief  happen  to 
you." 

Andr6-Louis  looked  at  him,  smiling  wanly. 

"I  swore  an  oath  to-day  which  it  would  damn  my  soul 
to  break." 

"You  mean  that  you'll  go  in  spite  of  anything  that  I  may 
say?"  Impetuous  as  he  was  inconsequent,  M.  de  Kercadiou 
was  bristling  again.  "Very  well ,  then,  go ...  Go  to  the  devil ! " 


44  The  Robe 

"I  will  begin  with  the  King's  Lieutenant." 

"And  if  you  get  into  the  trouble  you  are  seeking,  don't 
come  whimpering  to  me  for  assistance,"  the  seigneur 
stormed.  He  was  very  angry  now.  ' '  Since  you  choose  to  dis- 
obey me,  you  can  break  your  empty  head  against  the  wind- 
mill, and  be  damned  to  you." 

Andre-Louis  bowed  with  a  touch  of  irony,  and  reached 
the  door. 

"If  the  windmill  should  prove  too  formidable,"  said  he, 
from  the  threshold,  "I  may  see  what  can  be  done  with  the 
wind.  Good-bye,  monsieur  my  godfather." 

He  was  gone,  and  M.  de  Kercadiou  was  alone,  purple  in 
the  face,  puzzling  out  that  last  cryptic  utterance,  and  not  at 
all  happy  in  his  mind,  either  on  the  score  of  his  godson  or  of 
M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr.  He  was  disposed  to  be  angry  with 
them  both.  He  found  these  headstrong,  wilful  men  who  re- 
lentlessly followed  their  own  impulses  very  disturbing  and 
irritating.  Himself  he  loved  his  ease,  and  to  be  at  peace  with 
his  neighbours;  and  that  seemed  to  him  so  obviously  the 
supreme  good  of  life  that  he  was  disposed  to  brand  them  as 
fools  who  troubled  to  seek  other  things. 


CHAPTER  VI 
THE  WINDMILL 

THERE  was  between  Nantes  and  Rennes  an  established 
service  of  three  stage-coaches  weekly  in  each  direction, 
which  for  a  sum  of  twenty-four  livres  —  roughly,  the  equiv- 
alent of  an  English  guinea  —  would  carry  you  the  seventy 
and  odd  miles  of  the  journey  in  some  fourteen  hours.  Once 
a  week  one  of  the  diligences  going  in  each  direction  would 
swerve  aside  from  the  highroad  to  call  at  Gavrillac,  to  bring 
and  take  letters,  newspapers,  and  sometimes  passengers.  It 
was  usually  by  this  coach  that  Andr6-Louis  came  and  went 
when  the  occasion  offered.  At  present,  however,  he  was  too 
much  in  haste  to  lose  a  day  awaiting  the  passing  of  that  dili- 
gence. So  it  was  on  a  horse  hired  from  the  Breton  Arm6 
that  he  set  out  next  morning;  and  an  hour's  brisk  ride  under 
a  grey  wintry  sky,  by  a  half -ruined  road  through  ten  miles 
of  flat,  uninteresting  country,  brought  him  to  the  city  of 
Rennes. 

He  rode  across  the  main  bridge  over  the  Vilaine,  and  so 
into  the  upper  and  principal  part  of  that  important  city  of 
some  thirty  thousand  souls,  most  of  whom,  he  opined  from 
the  seething,  clamant  crowds  that  everywhere  blocked  his 
way,  must  on  this  day  have  taken  to  the  streets.  Clearly 
Philippe  had  not  overstated  the  excitement  prevailing  there. 

He  pushed  on  as  best  he  could,  and  so  came  at  last  to  the 
Place  Royale,  where  he  found  the  crowd  to  be  most  dense. 
From  the  plinth  of  the  equestrian  statue  of  Louis  XV,  a 
white-faced  young  man  was  excitedly  addressing  the  multi- 
tude. His  youth  and  dress  proclaimed  the  student,  and  a 
group  of  his  fellows,  acting  as  a  guard  of  honour  to  him,  kept 
the  immediate  precincts  of  the  statue. 

Over  the  heads  of  the  crowd  Andre-Louis  caught  a  few  of 
the  phrases  flung  forth  by  that  eager  voice. 


46  The  Robe 

"It  was  the  promise  of  the  King  ...  It  is  the  King's  au- 
thority they  flout .  .  .  They  arrogate  to  themselves  the  whole 
sovereignty  in  Brittany.  The  King  has  dissolved  them.  .  .  . 
These  insolent  nobles  defying  their  sovereign  and  the 
people  ..." 

^Had  he  not  known  already,  from  what  Philippe  had  told 
him,  of  the  events  which  had  brought  the  Third  Estate  to 
the  point  of  active  revolt,  those  few  phrases  would  fully 
have  informed  him.  This  popular  display  of  temper  was 
most  opportune  to  his  need,  he  thought.  And  in  the  hope 
that  it  might  serve  his  turn  by  disposing  to  reasonableness 
the  mind  of  the  King's  Lieutenant,  he  pushed  on  up  the 
wide  and  well-paved  Rue  Royale,  where  the  concourse  of 
people  began  to  diminish.  He  put  up  his  hired  horse  at  the 
Corne  de  Cerf,  and  set  out  again,  on  foot,  to  the  Palais  de 
Justice. 

There  was  a  brawling  mob  by  the  framework  of  poles  and 
scaffoldings  about  the  building  cathedral,  upon  which  work 
had  been  commenced  a  year  ago.  But  he  did  not  pause  to 
ascertain  the  particular  cause  of  that  gathering.  He  strode 
on,  and  thus  came  presently  to  the  handsome  Italianate 
palace  that  was  one  of  the  few  public  edifices  that  had  sur- 
vived the  devastating  fire  of  sixty  years  ago. 

He  won  through  with  difficulty  to  the  great  hall,  known  as 
the  Salle  des  Pas  Perdus,  where  he  was  left  to  cool  his  heels 
for  a  full  half-hour  after  he  had  found  an  usher  so  conde- 
scending as  to  inform  the  god  who  presided  over  that  shrine 
of  Justice  that  a  lawyer  from  Gavrillac  humbly  begged  an 
audience  on  an  affair  of  gravity. 

That  the  god  condescended  to  see  him  at  all  was  probably 
due  to  the  grave  complexion  of  the  hour.  At  long  length  he 
was  escorted  up  the  broad  stone  staircase,  and  ushered  into 
a  spacious,  meagrely  furnished  anteroom,  to  make  one  of  a 
waiting  crowd  of  clients,  mostly  men. 

There  he  spent  another  half -hour,  and  employed  the  time 
in  considering  exactly  what  he  should  say.  This  considera- 
tion made  him  realize  the  weakness  of  the  case  he  proposed 


The  Windmill  47 


to  set  before  a  man  whose  views  of  law  and  morality  were 
coloured  by  his  social  rank. 

At  last  he  was  ushered  through  a  narrow  but  very  massive 
and  richly  decorated  door  into  a  fine,  well-lighted  room  fur- 
nished with  enough  gilt  and  satin  to  have  supplied  the  bou- 
doir of  a  lady  of  fashion. 

It  was  a  trivial  setting  for  a  King's  Lieutenant,  but  about 
the  King's  Lieutenant  there  was  —  at  least  to  ordinary  eyes 
—  nothing  trivial.  At  the  far  end  of  the  chamber,  to  the 
right  of  one  of  the  tall  windows  that  looked  out  over  the 
inner  court,  before  a  goat-legged  writing-table  with  Wat- 
teau  panels,  heavily  encrusted  with  ormolu,  sat  that  ex- 
alted being.  Above  a  scarlet  coat  with  an  order  flaming  on 
its  breast,  and  a  billow  of  lace  in  which  diamonds  sparkled 
like  drops  of  water,  sprouted  the  massive  powdered  head 
of  M.  de  Lesdiguieres.  It  was  thrown  back  to  scowl  upon 
this  visitor  with  an  expectant  arrogance  that  made  Andr£- 
Louis  wonder  almost  was  a  genuflexion  awaited  from  him. 

Perceiving  a  lean,  lantern-jawed  young  man,  with  straight, 
lank  black  hair,  in  a  caped  riding-coat  of  brown  cloth,  and 
yellow  buckskin  breeches,  his  knee-boots  splashed  with  mud, 
the  scowl  upon  that  august  visage  deepened  until  it  brought 
together  the  thick  black  eyebrows  above  the  great  hooked 
nose.. 

"You  announce  yourself  as  a  lawyer  of  Gavrillac  with  an 
important  communication,"  he  growled.  It  was  a  peremp- 
tory command  to  make  this  communication  without  wasting 
the  valuable  time  of  a  King's  Lieutenant,  of  whose  immense 
importance  it  conveyed  something  more  than  a  hint.  M.  de 
Lesdiguieres  accounted  himself  an  imposing  personality, 
and  he  had  every  reason  to  do  so,  for  in  his  time  he  had  seen 
many  a  poor  devil  scared  out  of  all  his  senses  by  the  thunder 
of  his  voice. 

He  waited  now  to  see  the  same  thing  happen  to  this 
youthful  lawyer  from  Gavrillac.  But  he  waited  in  vain. 

Andr£-Louis  found  him  ridiculous.  He  knew  pretentious- 
ness for  the  mask  of  worthlessness  and  weakness.  And  here 


48  The  Robe 

he  beheld  pretentiousness  incarnate.  It  was  to  be  read  in 
that  arrogant  poise  of  the  head,  that  scowling  brow,  the 
inflexion  of  that  reverberating  voice.  Even  more  difficult 
than  it  is  for  a  man  to  be  a  hero  to  his  valet  —  who  has 
witnessed  the  dispersal  of  the  parts  that  make  up  the  im- 
posing whole  —  is  it  for  a  man  to  be  a  hero  to  the  student 
of  Man  who  has  witnessed  the  same  in  a  different  sense. 

Andre-Louis  stood  forward  boldly  —  impudently,  thought 
M.  de  Lesdiguieres. 

"You  are  His  Majesty's  Lieutenant  here  in  Brittany," 
he  said  —  and  it  almost  seemed  to  the  august  lord  of  life 
and  death  that  this  fellow  had  the  incredible  effrontery  to 
address  him  as  one  man  speaking  to  another.  "You  are  the 
dispenser  of  the  King's  high  justice  in  this  province." 

Surprise  spread  on  that  handsome,  sallow  face  under  the 
heavily  powdered  wig. 

"Is  your  business  concerned  with  this  infernal  insubor- 
dination of  the  canaille?"  he  asked. 

"It  is  not,  monsieur." 

The  black  eyebrows  rose.  "Then  what  the  devil  do  you 
mean  by  intruding  upon  me  at  a  time  when  all  my  attention 
is  being  claimed  by  the  obvious  urgency  of  this  disgraceful 
affair?" 

"The  affair  that  brings  me  is  no  less  disgraceful  and  no 
less  urgent." 

"  It  will  have  to  wait!"  thundered  the  great  man  in  a  pas- 
sion, and  tossing  back  a  cloud  of  lace  from  his  hand,  he 
reached  for  the  little  silver  bell  upon  his  table. 

"A  moment,  monsieur!"  Andre-Louis'  tone  was  per- 
emptory. M.  de  Lesdiguieres  checked  in  sheer  amazement 
at  its  impudence.  "I  can  state  it  very  briefly  .  .  ." 

"Have  n't  I  said  already  .  .  ." 

"And  when  you  have  heard  it,"  Andr6-Louis  went  on, 
relentlessly,  interrupting  the  interruption,  "you  will  agree 
with  me  as  to  its  character." 

M.  de  Lesdiguieres  considered  him  very  sternly. 

"  What  is  your  name?  "  he  asked. 


The  Windmill  49 


"Andre-Louis  Moreau." 

"Well,  Andre-Louis  Moreau,  if  you  can  state  your  plea 
briefly,  I  will  hear  you.  But  I  warn  you  that  I  shall  be  very 
angry  if  you  fail  to  justify  the  impertinence  of  this  insist- 
ence at  so  inopportune  a  moment." 

"You  shall  be  the  judge  of  that,  monsieur,"  said  Andr£- 
Louis,  and  he  proceeded  at  once  to  state  his  case,  beginning 
with  the  shooting  of  Mabey,  and  passing  thence  to  the  kill- 
ing of  M.  de  Vilmorin.  But  he  withheld  until  the  end  the 
name  of  the  great  gentleman  against  whom  he  demanded 
justice,  persuaded  that  did  he  introduce  it  earlier  he  would 
not  be  allowed  to  proceed. 

He  had  a  gift  of  oratory  of  whose  full  powers  he  was  him- 
self hardly  conscious  yet,  though  destined  very  soon  to  be- 
come so.  He  told  his  story  well,  without  exaggeration,  yet 
with  a  force  of  simple  appeal  that  was  irresistible.  Gradu- 
ally the  great  man's  face  relaxed  from  its  forbidding  severity. 
Interest,  warming  almost  to  sympathy,  came  to  be  reflected 
on  it. 

"And  who,  sir,  is  the  man  you  charge  with  this?" 

"The  Marquis  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr." 

The  effect  of  that  formidable  name  was  immediate.  Dis- 
mayed anger,  and  an  arrogance  more  utter  than  before,  took 
the  place  of  the  sympathy  he  had  been  betrayed  into  dis- 
playing. 

"Who?"  he  shouted,  and  without  waiting  for  an  answer, 
"Why,  here's  impudence,"  he  stormed  on,  "to  come  be- 
fore me  with  such  a  charge  against  a  gentleman  of  M.  de  La 
Tour  d'Azyr's  eminence!  How  dare  you  speak  of  him  as  a 
coward  ..." 

"  I  speak  of  him  as  a  murderer,"  the  young  man  corrected. 
"And  I  demand  justice  against  him." 

"You  demand  it,  do  you?  My  God,  what  next?" 

"That  is  for  you  to  say,  monsieur." 

It  surprised  the  great  gentleman  into  a  more  or  less  suc- 
cessful effort  of  self-control. 

"Let  me  warn  you,"  said  he,  acidly,  "that  it  is  not  wise  to 


5O  The  Robe 

make  wild  accusations  against  a  nobleman.  That,  in  itself, 
is  a  punishable  offence,  as  you  may  learn.  Now  listen  to  me. 
In  this  matter  of  Mabey  —  assuming  your  statement  of  it 
to  be  exact  —  the  gamekeeper  may  have  exceeded  his  duty ; 
but  by  so  little  that  it  is  hardly  worth  comment.  Consider, 
however,  that  in  any  case  it  is  not  a  matter  for  the  King's 
Lieutenant,  or  for  any  court  but  the  seigneurial  court  of 
M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr  himself.  It  is  before  the  magistrates 
of  his  own  appointing  that  such  a  matter  must  be  laid,  since 
it  is  matter  strictly  concerning  his  own  seigneurial  juris- 
diction. As  a  lawyer  you  should  not  need  to  be  told  so 
much." 

"As  a  lawyer,  I  am  prepared  to  argue  the  point.  But,  as 
a  lawyer  I  also  realize  that  if  that  case  were  prosecuted,  it 
could  only  end  in  the  unjust  punishment  of  a  wretched 
gamekeeper,  who  did  no  more  than  carry  out  his  orders,  but 
who  none  the  less  would  now  be  made  a  scapegoat,  if  scape- 
goat were  necessary.  I  am  not  concerned  to  hang  Benet  on 
the  gallows  earned  by  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr." 

M.  de  Lesdiguieres  smote  the  table  violently.  "My  God ! " 
he  cried  out,  to  add  more  quietly,  on  a  note  of  menace,  "You 
are  singularly  insolent,  my  man." 

"That  is  not  my  intention,  sir,  I  assure  you.  I  am  a  law- 
yer, pleading  a  case  —  the  case  of  M.  de  Vilmorin.  It  is  for 
his  assassination  that  I  have  come  to  beg  the  King's  justice." 

"But  you  yourself  have  said  that  it  was  a  duel ! "  cried  the 
Lieutenant,  between  anger  and  bewilderment. 

"I  have  said  that  it  was  made  to  appear  a  duel.  There  is 
a  distinction,  as  I  shall  show,  if  you  will  condescend  to  hear 
me  out." 

"Take  your  own  time,  sir!"  said  the  ironical  M.  de  Les- 
diguieres, whose  tenure  of  office  had  never  yet  held  any- 
thing that  remotely  resembled  this  experience. 

Andre-Louis  took  him  literally.  "I  thank  you,  sir,"  he 
answered,  solemnly,  and  submitted  his  argument.  "It  can 
be  shown  that  M.  de  Vilmorin  never  practised  fencing  in 
all  his  life,  and  it  is  notorious  that  M,  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr 


The  Windmill  51 


is  an  exceptional  swordsman.  Is  it  a  duel,  monsieur,  where 
one  of  the  combatants  alone  is  armed?  For  it  amounts  to 
that  on  a  comparison  of  their  measures  of  respective  skill." 

"There  has  scarcely  been  a  duel  fought  on  which  the  same 
trumpery  argument  might  not  be  advanced." 

"But  not  always  with  equal  justice.  And  in  one  case,  at 
least,  it  was  advanced  successfully." 

"Successfully?  When  was  that?" 

"Ten  years  ago,  in  Dauphiny.  I  refer  to  the  case  of  M.  de 
Gesvres,  a  gentleman  of  that  province,  who  forced  a  duel 
upon  M.  de  la  Roche  Jeannine,  and  killed  him.  M.  de 
Jeannine  was  a  member  of  a  powerful  family,  which  exerted 
itself  to  obtain  justice.  It  put  forward  just  such  arguments 
as  now  obtain  against  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr.  As  you  will 
remember,  the  judges  held  that  the  provocation  had  pro- 
ceeded of  intent  from  M.  de  Gesvres;  they  found  him  guilty 
of  premeditated  murder,  and  he  was  hanged." 

M.  de  Lesdiguieres  exploded  yet  again.  "Death  of  my 
life!"  he  cried.  "Have  you  the  effrontery  to  suggest  that 
M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr  should  be  hanged?  Have  you?" 

"But  why  not,  monsieur,  if  it  is  the  law,  and  there  is  prec- 
edent for  it,  as  I  have  shown  you,  and  if  it  can  be  estab- 
lished that  what  I  state  is  the  truth  —  as  established  it  can 
be  without  difficulty?" 

"Do  you  ask  me,  why  not?  Have  you  temerity  to  ask  me 
that?" 

"  I  have,  monsieur.  Can  you  answer  me?  If  you  cannot, 
monsieur,  I  shall  understand  that  whilst  it  is  possible  for  a 
powerful  family  like  that  of  La  Roche  Jeannine  to  set  the 
law  in  motion,  the  law  must  remain  inert  for  the  obscure  and 
uninfluential,  however  brutally  wronged  by  a  great  noble- 
man." 

M.  de  Lesdiguieres  perceived  that  in  argument  he  would 
accomplish  nothing  against  this  impassive,  resolute  young 
man.  The  menace  of  him  grew  more  fierce. 

"I  should  advise  you  to  take  yourself  off  at  once,  and  to 
be  thankful  for  the  opportunity  to  depart  unscathed." 


52  The  Robe 

"I  am,  then,  to  understand,  monsieur,  that  there  will  be 
no  inquiry  into  this  case?  That  nothing  that  I  can  say  will 
move  you?" 

"You  are  to  understand  that  if  you  are  still  there  in  two 
minutes  it  will  be  very  much  the  worse  for  you."  And  M. 
de  Lesdiguieres  tinkled  the  silver  hand-bell  upon  his  table. 

"I  have  informed  you,  monsieur,  that  a  duel  —  so-called 
—  has  been  fought,  and  a  man  killed.  It  seems  that  I  must 
remind  you,  the  administrator  of  the  King's  justice,  that 
duels  are  against  the  law,  and  that  it  is  your  duty  to  hold 
an  inquiry.  I  come  as  the  legal  representative  of  the  be- 
reaved mother  of  M.  de  Vilmorin  to  demand  of  you  the  in- 
quiry that  is  due." 

The  door  behind  Andr6-Louis  opened  softly.  M.  de 
Lesdiguieres,  pale  with  anger,  contained  himself  with  diffi- 
culty. 

"You  seek  to  compel  us,  do  you,  you  impudent  rascal?" 
he  growled.  "You  think  the  King's  justice  is  to  be  driven 
headlong  by  the  voice  of  any  impudent  roturier?  I  marvel 
at  my  own  patience  with  you.  But  I  give  you  a  last  warning, 
master  lawyer ;  keep  a  closer  guard  over  that  insolent  tongue 
of  yours,  or  you  will  have  cause  very  bitterly  to  regret  its 
glibness."  He  waved  a  jewelled,  contemptuous  hand,  and 
spoke  to  the  usher  standing  behind  Andr£.  "To  the  door!" 
he  said,  shortly. 

Andr6-Louis  hesitated  a  second.  Then  with  a  shrug  he 
turned.  This  was  the  windmill,  indeed,  and  he  a  poor  knight 
of  rueful  countenance.  To  attack  it  at  closer  quarters 
would  mean  being  dashed  to  pieces.  Yet  on  the  threshold 
he  turned  again. 

"M.  de  Lesdiguieres,"  said  he,  "may  I  recite  to  you  an 
interesting  fact  in  natural  history?  The  tiger  is  a  great  lord 
in  the  jungle,  and  was  for  centuries  the  terror  of  lesser 
beasts,  including  the  wolf.  The  wolf,  himself  a  hunter, 
wearied  of  being  hunted.  He  took  to  associating  with  other 
wolves,  and  then  the  wolves,  driven  to  form  packs  for  self- 
protection,  discovered  the  power  of  the  pack,  and  took  to 


The  Windmill  53 


hunting  the  tiger,  with  disastrous  results  to  him.  You 
should  study  Buffon,  M.  de  Lesdiguieres." 

"I  have  studied  a  buffoon  this  morning,  I  think,"  was 
the  punning  sneer  with  which  M.  de  Lesdiguieres  replied. 
But  that  he  conceived  himself  witty,  it  is  probable  he  would 
not  have  condescended  to  reply  at  all.  "  I  don't  understand 
you,"  he  added. 

"But  you  will,  M.  de  Lesdiguieres.  You  will,"  said 
Andre-Louis,  and  so  departed. 


CHAPTER  VII 
THE  WIND 

HE  had  broken  his  futile  lance  with  the  windmill  —  the 
image  suggested  by  M.  de  Kercadiou  persisted  in  his  mind  — 
and  it  was,  he  perceived,  by  sheer  good  fortune  that  he  had 
escaped  without  hurt.  There  remained  the  wind  itself  — 
the  whirlwind.  And  the  events  in  Rennes,  reflex  of  the 
graver  events  in  Nantes,  had  set  that  wind  blowing  in  his 
favour. 

He  set  out  briskly  to  retrace  his  steps  towards  the  Place 
Royale,  where  the  gathering  of  the  populace  was  greatest, 
where,  as  he  judged,  lay  the  heart  and  brain  of  this  commo- 
tion that  was  exciting  the  city. 

But  the  commotion  that  he  had  left  there  was  as  nothing 
to  the  commotion  which  he  found  on  his  return.  Then  there 
had  been  a  comparative  hush  to  listen  to  the  voice  of  a 
speaker  who  denounced  the  First  and  Second  Estates  from 
the  pedestal  of  the  statue  of  Louis  XV.  Now  the  air  was 
vibrant  with  the  voice  of  the  multitude  itself,  raised  in 
anger.  Here  and  there  men  were  fighting  with  canes  and 
fists;  everywhere  a  fierce  excitement  raged,  and  the  gen- 
darmes sent  thither  by  the  King's  Lieutenant  to  restore 
and  maintain  order  were  so  much  helpless  flotsam  in  that 
tempestuous  human  ocean. 

There  were  cries  of  " To  the  Palais !  To  the  Palais!  Down 
with  the  assassins !  Down  with  the  nobles !  To  the  Palais!" 

An  artisan  who  stood  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  him  in 
the  press  enlightened  Andre-Louis  on  the  score  of  the  in- 
creased excitement. 

"They've  shot  him  dead.  His  body  is  lying  there  where 
it  fell  at  the  foot  of  the  statue.  And  there  was  another  stu- 
dent killed  not  an  hour  ago  over  there  by  the  cathedral 
works.  Pardi!  If  they  can't  prevail  in  one  way  they'll 


The  Wind  55 

prevail  in  another."  The  man  was  fiercely  emphatic. 
"They'll  stop  at  nothing.  If  they  can't  overawe  us,  by 
God,  they'll  assassinate  us.  They  are  determined  to  con- 
duct these  States  of  Brittany  in  their  own  way.  No  interests 
but  their  own  shall  be  considered." 

Andr£-Louis  left  him  still  talking,  and  clove  himself  a  way 
through  that  human  press. 

At  the  statue 's  base  he  came  upon  a  little  cluster  of  stu- 
dents about  the  body  of  the  murdered  lad,  all  stricken  with 
fear  and  helplessness. 

"You  here,  Moreau!"  said  a  voice. 

He  looked  round  to  find  himself  confronted  by  a  slight, 
swarthy  man  of  little  more  than  thirty,  firm  of  mouth  and 
impertinent  of  nose,  who  considered  him  with  disapproval. 
It  was  Le  Chapelier,  a  lawyer  of  Rennes,  a  prominent  mem- 
ber of  the  Literary  Chamber  of  that  city,  a  forceful  man, 
fertile  in  revolutionary  ideas  and  of  an  exceptional  gift  of 
eloquence. 

"Ah,  it  is  you,  Chapelier!  Why  don't  you  speak  to  them? 
Why  don't  you  tell  them  what  to  do?  Up  with  you,  man!" 
And  he  pointed  to  the  plinth. 

Le  Chapelier's  dark,  restless  eyes  searched  the  other's 
impassive  face  for  some  trace  of  the  irony  he  suspected. 
They  were  as  wide  asunder  as  the  poles,  these  two,  in  their 
political  views;  and  mistrusted  as  Andr6-Louis  was  by  all 
his  colleagues  of  the  Literary  Chamber  of  Rennes,  he  was 
by  none  mistrusted  so  thoroughly  as  by  this  vigorous  re- 
publican. Indeed,  had  Le  Chapelier  been  able  to  prevail 
against  the  influence  of  the  seminarist  Vilmorin,  Andr6- 
Louis  would  long  since  have  found  himself  excluded  from 
that  assembly  of  the  intellectual  youth  of  Rennes,  which  he 
exasperated  by  his  eternal  mockery  of  their  ideals. 

So  now  Le  Chapelier  suspected  mockery  in  that  invita- 
tion, suspected  it  even  when  he  failed  to  find  traces  of  it  on 
Andr£-Louis'  face,  for  he  had  learnt  by  experience  that  it 
was  a  face  not  often  to  be  trusted  for  an  indication  of  the 
real  thoughts  that  moved  behind  it. 


56  The  Robe 

"Your  notions  and  mine  on  that  score  can  hardly  coin- 
cide," said  he. 

"Can  there  be  two  opinions?"  quoth  Andre-Louis. 

"There  are  usually  two  opinions  whenever  you  and  I  are 
together,  Moreau  —  more  than  ever  now  that  you  are  the 
appointed  delegate  of  a  nobleman.  You  see  what  your 
friends  have  done.  No  doubt  you  approve  their  methods." 
He  was  coldly  hostile. 

Andre-Louis  looked  at  him  without  surprise.  So  invari- 
ably opposed  to  each  other  in  academic  debates,  how  should 
Le  Chapelier  suspect  his  present  intentions? 

"  If  you  won't  tell  them  what  is  to  be  done,  I  will,"  said  he. 

"Nom  de  Dieu!  If  you  want  to  invite  a  bullet  from  the 
other  side,  I  shall  not  hinder  you.  It  may  help  to  square  the 
account." 

Scarcely  were  the  words  out  than  he  repented  them;  for 
as  if  in  answer  to  that  challenge  Andre-Louis  sprang  up  on 
to  the  plinth.  Alarmed  now,  for  he  could  only  suppose  it  to 
be  Andr6-Louis'  intention  to  speak  on  behalf  of  Privilege, 
of  which  he  was  a  publicly  appointed  representative,  Le 
Chapelier  clutched  him  by  the  leg  to  pull  him  down  again. 

"Ah,  that,  no!"  he  was  shouting.  "Come  down,  you 
fool.  Do  you  think  we  will  let  you  ruin  everything  by  your 
clowning?  Comedown!" 

Andre-Louis,  maintaining  his  position  by  clutching  one  of 
the  legs  of  the  bronze  horse,  flung  his  voice  like  a  bugle-note 
over  the  heads  of  that  seething  mob. 

"Citizens  of  Rennes,  the  motherland  is  in  danger!" 

The  effect  was  electric.  A  stir  ran,  like  a  ripple  over 
water,  across  that  froth  of  upturned  human  faces,  and  com- 
pletest  silence  followed.  In  that  great  silence  they  looked  at 
this  slim  young  man,  hatless,  long  wisps  of  his  black  hair 
fluttering  in  the  breeze,  his  neckcloth  in  disorder,  his  face 
white,  his  eyes  on  fire. 

Andre-Louis  felt  a  sudden  surge  of  exaltation  as  he  realized 
by  instinct  that  at  one  grip  he  had  seized  that  crowd,  and 
that  he  held  it  fast  in  the  spell  of  his  cry  and  his  audacity. 


The  Wind  57 

Even  Le  Chapelier,  though  still  clinging  to  his  ankle,  had 
ceased  to  tug.  The  reformer,  though  unshaken  in  his  as- 
sumption of  Andr£-Louis'  intentions,  was  for  a  moment  be- 
wildered by  the  first  note  of  his  appeal. 

And  then,  slowly,  impressively,  in  a  voice  that  travelled 
clear  to  the  ends  of  the  square,  the  young  lawyer  of  Gavril- 
lac  began  to  speak. 

"Shuddering  in  horror  of  the  vile  deed  here  perpetrated, 
my  voice  demands  to  be  heard  by  you.  You  have  seen  mur- 
der done  under  your  eyes  —  the  murder  of  one  who  nobly, 
without  any  thought  of  self,  gave  voice  to  the  wrongs  by 
which  we  are  all  oppressed.  Fearing  that  voice,  shunning 
the  truth  as  foul  things  shun  the  light,  our  oppressors  sent 
their  agents  to  silence  him  in  death." 

Le  Chapelier  released  at  last  his  hold  of  Andrd-Louis' 
ankle,  staring  up  at  him  the  while  in  sheer  amazement.  It 
seemed  that  the  fellow  was  in  earnest;  serious  for  once;  and 
for  once  on  the  right  side.  What  had  come  to  him? 

"Of  assassins  what  shall  you  look  for  but  assassination? 
I  have  a  tale  to  tell  which  will  show  that  this  is  no  new 
thing  that  you  have  witnessed  here  to-day;  it  will  reveal 
to  you  the  forces  with  which  you  have  to  deal.  Yester- 
day. .  ." 

There  was  an  interruption.  A  voice  in  the  crowd,  some 
twenty  paces,  perhaps,  was  raised  to  shout: 

"Yet  another  of  them!" 

Immediately  after  the  voice  came  a  pistol-shot,  and  a 
bullet  flattened  itself  against  the  bronze  figure  just  behind 
Andr6-Louis. 

Instantly  there  was  turmoil  in  the  crowd,  most  intense 
about  the  spot  whence  the  shot  had  been  fired.  The  as- 
sailant was  one  of  a  considerable  group  of  the  opposition,  a 
group  that  found  itself  at  once  beset  on  every  side,  and  hard 
put  to  it  to  defend  him. 

From  the  foot  of  the  plinth  rang  the  voice  of  the  students 
making  chorus  to  Le  Chapelier,  who  was  bidding  Andr£- 
Louis  to  seek  shelter. 


58 The  Robe 

"Come  down!  Come  down  at  once!  They'll  murder  you 
as  they  murdered  La  Riviere." 

"Let  them!"  He  flung  wide  his  arms  in  a  gesture  su- 
premely theatrical,  and  laughed.  "I  stand  here  at  their 
mercy.  Let  them,  if  they  will,  add  mine  to  the  blood  that 
will  presently  rise  up  to  choke  them.  Let  them  assassinate 
me.  It  is  a  trade  they  understand.  But  until  they  do  so, 
they  shall  not  prevent  me  from  speaking  to  you,  from  telling 
you  what  is  to  be  looked  for  in  them."  And  again  he 
laughed,  not  merely  in  exaltation  as  they  supposed  who 
watched  him  from  below,  but  also  in  amusement.  And  his 
amusement  had  two  sources.  One  was  to  discover  how 
glibly  he  uttered  the  phrases  proper  to  whip  up  the  emo- 
tions of  a  crowd :  the  other  was  in  the  remembrance  of  how 
the  crafty  Cardinal  de  Retz,  for  the  purpose  of  inflaming 
popular  sympathy  on  his  behalf,  had  been  in  the  habit  of 
hiring  fellows  to  fire  upon  his  carriage.  He  was  in  just  such 
case  as  that  arch-politician.  True,  he  had  not  hired  the 
fellow  to  fire  that  pistol-shot;  but  he  was  none  the  less 
obliged  to  him,  and  ready  to  derive  the  fullest  advantage 
from  the  act. 

The  group  that  sought  to  protect  that  man  was  battling 
on,  seeking  to  hew  a  way  out  of  that  angry,  heaving  press. 

"Let  them  go!"  Andr6-Louis  called  down.  "What  mat- 
ters one  assassin  more  or  less?  Let  them  go,  and  listen  to 
me,  my  countrymen!" 

And  presently,  when  some  measure  of  order  was  restored, 
he  began  his  tale.  In  simple  language  now,  yet  with  a  ve- 
hemence and  directness  that  drove  home  every  point,  he 
tore  their  hearts  with  the  story  of  yesterday's  happenings  at 
Gavrillac.  He  drew  tears  from  them  with  the  pathos  of  his 
picture  of  the  bereaved  widow  Mabey  and  her  three  starv- 
ing, destitute  children  —  "orphaned  to  avenge  the  death  of 
a  pheasant"  —  and  the  bereaved  mother  of  that  M.  de  Vil- 
morin,  a  student  of  Rennes,  known  here  to  many  of  them, 
who  had  met  his  death  in  a  noble  endeavour  to  champion 
the  cause  of  an  esurient  member  of  their  afflicted  order. 


The  Wind  59 

"The  Marquis  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr  said  of  him  that  he  had 
too  dangerous  a  gift  of  eloquence.  It  was  to  silence  his 
brave  voice  that  he  killed  him.  But  he  has  failed  of  his  ob- 
ject. For  I,  poor  Philippe  de  Vilmorin's  friend,  have  as- 
sumed the  mantle  of  his  apostleship,  and  I  speak  to  you 
with  his  voice  to-day." 

It  was  a  statement  that  helped  Le  Chapelier  at  last  to 
understand,  at  least  in  part,  this  bewildering  change  in 
Andr£-Louis,  which  rendered  him  faithless  to  the  side  that 
employed  him. 

"I  am  not  here,"  continued  Andr£-Louis,  "merely  to  de- 
mand at  your  hands  vengeance  upon  Philippe  de  Vilmorin's 
murderers.  I  am  here  to  tell  you  the  things  he  would  to-day 
have  told  you  had  he  lived." 

So  far  at  least  he  was  frank.  But  he  did  not  add  that  they 
were  things  he  did  not  himself  believe,  things  that  he  ac- 
counted the  cant  by  which  an  ambitious  bourgeoisie  —  speak- 
ing through  the  mouths  of  the  lawyers,  who  were  its  artic- 
ulate part  —  sought  to  overthrow  to  its  own  advantage  the 
present  state  of  things.  He  left  his  audience  in  the  natural 
belief  that  the  views  he  expressed  were  the  views  he  held. 

And  now  in  a  terrible  voice,  with  an  eloquence  that 
amazed  himself,  he  denounced  the  inertia  of  the  royal  justice 
where  the  great  are  the  offenders.  It  was  with  bitter  sarcasm 
that  he  spoke  of  their  King's  Lieutenant,  M.  de  Lesdi- 
guieres. 

"Do  you  wonder,"  he  asked  them,  "that  M.  de  Lesdi- 
guieres  should  administer  the  law  so  that  it  shall  ever  be 
favourable  to  our  great  nobles?  Would  it  be  just,  would  it 
be  reasonable  that  he  should  otherwise  administer  it?" 

He  paused  dramatically  to  let  his  sarcasm  sink  in.  It  had 
the  effect  of  reawakening  Le  Chapelier 's  doubts,  and  check- 
ing his  dawning  conviction  in  Andr6-Louis'  sincerity. 
Whither  was  he  going  now? 

He  was  not  left  long  in  doubt.  Proceeding,  Andr6-Louis 
spoke  as  he  conceived  that  Philippe  de  Vilmorin  would  have 
spoken.  He  had  so  often  argued  with  him,  so  often  attended 


60  The  Robe 

the  discussions  of  the  Literary  Chamber,  that  he  had  all  the 
cant  of  the  reformers  —  that  was  yet  true  in  substance  — 
at  his  fingers'  ends. 

"Consider,  after  all,  the  composition  of  this  France  of 
ours.  A  million  of  its  inhabitants  are  members  of  the  priv- 
ileged classes.  They  compose  France.  They  are  France.  For 
surely  you  cannot  suppose  the  remainder  to  be  anything 
that  matters.  It  cannot  be  pretended  that  twenty-four 
million  souls  are  of  any  account,  that  they  can  be  repre- 
sentative of  this  gYeat  nation,  or  that  they  can  exist  for  any 
purpose  but  that  of  servitude  to  the  million  elect." 

Bitter  laughter  shook  them  now,  as  he  desired  it  should. 

"Seeing  their  privileges  in  danger  of  invasion  by  these 
twenty-four  millions  —  mostly  canailles ;  possibly  created 
by  God,  it  is  true,  but  clearly  so  created  to  be  the  slaves  of 
Privilege  —  does  it  surprise  you  that  the  dispensing  of  royal 
justice  should  be  placed  in  the  stout  hands  of  these  Lesdi- 
gui£res,  men  without  brains  to  think  or  hearts  to  be  touched? 
Consider  what  it  is  that  must  be  defended  against  the  as- 
sault of  us  others  —  canaille.  Consider  a  few  of  these  feudal 
rights  that  are  in  danger  of  being  swept  away  should  the 
Privileged  yield  even  to  the  commands  of  their  sovereign, 
and  admit  the  Third  Estate  to  an  equal  vote  with  them- 
selves. 

"What  would  become  of  the  right  of  terrage  on  the  land, 
of  parci£re  on  the  fruit-trees,  of  carpot  on  the  vines?  What 
of  the  corvees  by  which  they  command  forced  labour,?of  the 
ban  de  vendage,  which  gives  them  the  first  vintage,  the 
banvin  which  enables  them  to  control  to  their  own  advan- 
tage the  sale  of  wine?  What  of  their  right  of  grinding  the 
last  Hard  of  taxation  out  of  the  people  to  maintain  their 
own  opulent  estate ;  the  cens,  the  lods-et-ventes,  which  ab- 
sorb a  fifth  of  the  value  of  the  land,  the  blair£e,  which  must 
be  paid  before  herds  can  feed  on  communal  lands,  the  pul- 
verage  to  indemnify  them  for  the  dust  raised  on  their  roads 
by  the  herds  that  go  to  market,  the  sextelage  on  everything 
offered  for  sale  in  the  public  markets,  the  6talonnage,  and 


The  Wind  61 

all  the  rest?  What  of  their  rights  over  men  and  animals  for 
field  labour,  of  ferries  over  rivers,  and  of  bridges  over  streams, 
of  sinking  wells,  of  warren,  of  dovecot,  and  of  fire,  which 
last  yields  them  a  tax  on  every  peasant  hearth?  What  of 
their  exclusive  rights  of  fishing  and  of  hunting,  the  violation 
of  which  is  ranked  as  almost  a  capital  offence? 

"And  what  of  other  rights,  unspeakable,  abominable, 
over  the  lives  and  bodies  of  their  people,  rights  which,  if 
rarely  exercised,  have  never  been  rescinded.  To  this  day  if 
a  noble  returning  from  the  hunt  were  to  slay  two  of  his 
serfs  to  bathe  and  refresh  his  feet  in  their  blood,  he  could 
still  claim  in  his  sufficient  defence  that  it  was  his  absolute 
feudal  right  to  do  so. 

"Rough-shod,  these  million  Privileged  ride  over  the  souls 
and  bodies  of  twenty-four  million  contemptible  canaille 
existing  but  for  their  own  pleasure.  Woe  betide  him  who  so 
much  as  raises  his  voice  in  protest  in  the  name  of  humanity 
against  an  excess  of  these  already  excessive  abuses.  I  have 
told  you  of  one  remorselessly  slain  in  cold  blood  for  doing 
no  more  than  that.  Your  own  eyes  have  witnessed  the  as- 
sassination of  another  here  upon  this  plinth,  of  yet  another 
over  there  by  the  cathedral  works,  and  the  attempt  upon 
my  own  life. 

"Between  them  and  the  justice  due  to  them  in  such  cases 
stand  these  Lesdiguieres,  these  King's  Lieutenants;  not  in- 
struments of  justice,  but  walls  erected  for  the  shelter  of 
Privilege  and  Abuse  whenever  it  exceeds  its  grotesquely  ex- 
cessive rights. 

"Do  you  wonder  that  they  will  not  yield  an  inch;  that 
they  will  resist  the  election  of  a  Third  Estate  with  the  vot- 
ing power  to  sweep  all  these  privileges  away,  to  compel  the 
Privileged  to  submit  themselves  to  a  just  equality  in  the 
eyes  of  the  law  with  the  meanest  of  the  canaille  they  trample 
underfoot,  to  provide  that  the  moneys  necessary  to  save 
this  state  from  the  bankruptcy  into  which  they  have  all 
but  plunged  it  shall  be  raised  by  taxation  to  be  borne  by 
themselves  in  the  same  proportion  as  by  others? 


62  The  Robe 

"Sooner  than  yield  to  so  much  they  prefer  to  resist  even' 
the  royal  command." 

A  phrase  occurred  to  him  used  yesterday  by  Vilmorin,  a 
phrase  to  which  he  had  refused  to  attach  importance  when 
uttered  then.  He  used  it  now.  "In  doing  this  they  are 
striking  at  the  very  foundations  of  the  throne.  These  fools 
do  not  perceive  that  if  that  throne  falls  over,  it  is  they  who 
stand  nearest  to  it  who  will  be  crushed." 

A  terrific  roar  acclaimed  that  statement.  Tense  and  quiv- 
ering with  the  excitement  that  was  flowing  through  him,  and 
from  him  out  into  that  great  audience,  he  stood  a  moment 
smiling  ironically.  Then  he  waved  them  into  silence,  and 
saw  by  their  ready  obedience  how  completely  he  possessed 
them.  For  in  the  voice  with  which  he  spoke  each  now  recog- 
nized the  voice  of  himself,  giving  at  last  expression  to  the 
thoughts  that  for  months  and  years  had  been  inarticulately 
stirring  in  each  simple  mind. 

Presently  he  resumed,  speaking  more  quietly,  that  ironic 
smile  about  the  corner  of  his  mouth  growing  more  marked : 

"In  taking  my  leave  of  M.  de  Lesdiguieres  I  gave  him 
warning  out  of  a  page  of  natural  history.  I  told  him  that 
when  the  wolves,  roaming  singly  through  the  jungle,  were 
weary  of  being  hunted  by  the  tiger,  they  banded  themselves 
into  packs,  and  went  a-hunting  the  tiger  in  their  turn. 
M.  de  Lesdiguieres  contemptuously  answered  that  he  did 
not  understand  me.  But  your  wits  are  better  than  his.  You 
understand  me,  I  think?  Don't  you?" 

Again  a  great  roar,  mingled  now  with  some  approving 
laughter,  was  his  answer.  He  had  wrought  them  up  to  a 
pitch  of  dangerous  passion,  and  they  were  ripe  for  any  vio- 
lence to  which  he  urged  them.  If  he  had  failed  with  the 
windmill,  at  least  he  was  now  master  of  the  wind. 

"To  the  Palais!"  they  shouted,  waving  their  hands, 
brandishing  canes,  and  —  here  and  there  —  even  a  sword. 
"To  the  Palais!  Down  with  M.  de  Lesdiguieres!  Death  to 
the  King's  Lieutenant!" 

He  was  master  of  the  wind,  indeed.  His  dangerous  gift 


The  Wind  63 

of  oratory — a  gift  nowhere  more  powerful  than  in  France, 
since  nowhere  else  are  men's  emotions  so  quick  to  respond 
to  the  appeal  of  eloquence  —  had  given  him  this  mastery. 
At  his  bidding  now  the  gale  would  sweep  away  the  windmill 
against  which  he  had  flung  himself  in  vain.  But  that,  as  he 
straightforwardly  revealed  it,  was  no  part  of  his  intent. 

"Ah,  wait!"  he  bade  them.  "  Is  this  miserable  instrumen<- 
of  a  corrupt  system  worth  the  attention  of  your  noble  in- 
dignation?" 

He  hoped  his  words  would  be  reported  to  M.  de  Lesdi- 
guieres.  He  thought  it  would  be  good  for  the  soul  of  M.  de 
Lesdiguieres  to  hear  the  undiluted  truth  about  himself  for 
once. 

"It  is  the  system  itself  you  must  attack  and  overthrow; 
not  a  mere  instrument  —  a  miserable  painted  lath  such  as 
this.  And  precipitancy  will  spoil  everything.  Above  all, 
my  children,  no  violence!" 

My  children !   Could  his  godfather  have  heard  him ! 

"You  have  seen  often  already  the  result  of  premature 
violence  elsewhere  in  Brittany,  and  you  have  heard  of  it 
elsewhere  in  France.  Violence  on  your  part  will  call  for 
violence  on  theirs.  They  will  welcome  the  chance  to  assert 
their  mastery  by  a  firmer  grip  than  heretofore.  The  military 
will  be  sent  for.  You  will  be  faced  by  the  bayonets  of  mer- 
cenaries. Do  not  provoke  that,  I  implore  you.  Do  not  put 
it  into  their  power,  do  not  afford  them  the  pretext  they 
would  welcome  to  crush  you  down  into  the  mud  of  your  own 
blood." 

Out  of  the  silence  into  which  they  had  fallen  anew  broke 
now  the  cry  of 

"What  else,  then?  What  else?" 

"I  will  tell  you,"  he  answered  them.  "The  wealth  and 
strength  of  Brittany  lies  in  Nantes  —  a  bourgeois  city,  one 
of  the  most  prosperous  in  this  realm,  rendered  so  by  the 
energy  of  the  bourgeoisie  and  the  toil  of  the  people.  It  was 
in  Nantes  that  this  movement  had  its  beginning,  and  as  a 
result  of  it  the  King  issued  his  order  dissolving  the  States  as 


64  The  Robe 

now  constituted  —  an  order  which  those  who  base  their 
power  on  Privilege  and  Abuse  do  not  hesitate  to  thwart. 
Let  Nantes  be  informed  of  the  precise  situation,  and  let 
nothing  be  done  here  until  Nantes  shall  have  given  us  the 
lead.  She  has  the  power  —  which  we  in  Rennes  have  not  — 
to  make  her  will  prevail,  as  we  have  seen  already.  Let  her 
exert  that  power  once  more,  and  until  she  does  so  do  you 
keep  the  peace  in  Rennes.  Thus  shall  you  triumph.  Thus 
shall  the  outrages  that  are  being  perpetrated  under  your 
eyes  be  fully  and  finally  avenged." 

As  abruptly  as  he  had  leapt  upon  the  plinth  did  he  now 
leap  down  from  it.  He  had  finished.  He  had  said  all  — 
perhaps  more  than  all  —  that  could  have  been  said  by  the 
dead  friend  with  whose  voice  he  spoke.  But  it  was  not  their 
will  that  he  should  thus  extinguish  himself.  The  thunder  of 
their  acclamations  rose  deafeningly  upon  the  air.  He  had 
played  upon  their  emotions  —  each  in  turn  —  as  a  skilful 
harpist  plays  upon  the  strings  of  his  instrument.  And  they 
were  vibrant  with  the  passions  he  had  aroused,  and  the 
high  note  of  hope  on  which  he  had  brought  his  symphony  to 
a  close. 

A  dozen  students  caught  him  as  he  leapt  down,  and  swung 
him  to  their  shoulders,  where  again  he  came  within  view  of 
all  the  acclaiming  crowd. 

The  delicate  Le  Chapelier  pressed  alongside  of  him  with 
flushed  face  and  shining  eyes. 

"My  lad,"  he  said  to  him,  "you  have  kindled  a  fire  to-day 
that  will  sweep  the  face  of  France  in  a  blaze  of  liberty." 
And  then  to  the  students  he  issued  a  sharp  command.  "To 
the  Literary  Chamber  — at  once.  We  must  concert  measures 
upon  the  instant,  a  delegate  must  be  dispatched  to  Nantes 
forthwith,  to  convey  to  our  friends  there  the  message  of  the 
people  of  Rennes." 

The  crowd  fell  back,  opening  a  lane  through  which  the 
students  bore  the  hero  of  the  hour.  Waving  his  hands  to 
them,  he  called  upon  them  to  disperse  to  their  homes,  and 
await  there  in  patience  what  must  follow  very  soon. 


The  Wind  65 

"You  have  endured  for  centuries  with  a  fortitude  that  is 
a  pattern  to  the  world,"  he  flattered  them.  "Endure  a  little 
longer  yet.  The  end,  my  friends,  is  well  in  sight  at  last." 

They  carried  him  out  of  the  square  and  up  the  Rue 
Royale  to  an  old  house,  one  of  the  few  old  houses  surviving 
in  that  city  that  had  risen  from  its  ashes,  where  in  an  upper 
chamber  lighted  by  diamond-shaped  panes  of  yellow  glass 
the  Literary  Chamber  usually  held  its  meetings.  Thither 
in  his  wake  the  members  of  that  chamber  came  hurrying, 
summoned  by  the  messages  that  Le  Chapelier  had  issued 
during  their  progress. 

Behind  closed  doors  a  flushed  and  excited  group  of  some 
fifty  men,  the  majority  of  whom  were  young,  ardent,  and 
afire  with  the  illusion  of  liberty,  hailed  Andr£-Louis  as  the 
strayed  sheep  who  had  returned  to  the  fold,  and  smothered 
him  in  congratulations  and  thanks. 

Then  they  settled  down  to  deliberate  upon  immediate 
measures,  whilst  the  doors  below  were  kept  by  a  guard  of 
honour  that  had  improvised  itself  from  the  masses.  And 
very  necessary  was  this.  For  no  sooner  had  the  Chamber 
assembled  than  the  house  was  assailed  by  the  gendarmerie 
of  M.  de  Lesdiguieres,  dispatched  in  haste  to  arrest  the 
firebrand  who  was  inciting  the  people  of  Rennes  to  sedition. 
The  force  consisted  of  fifty  men.  Five  hundred  would  have 
been  too  few.  The  mob  broke  their  carbines,  broke  some  of 
their  heads,  and  would  indeed  have  torn  them  into  pieces 
had  they  not  beaten  a  timely  and  well-advised  retreat  be- 
fore a  form  of  horseplay  to  which  they  were  not  at  all  ac- 
customed. 

And  whilst  that  was  taking  place  in  the  street  below,  in 
the  room  abovestairs  the  eloquent  Le  Chapelier  was  ad- 
dressing his  colleagues  of  the  Literary  Chamber.  Here,  with 
no  bullets  to  fear,  and  no  one  to  report  his  words  to  the  au- 
thorities, Le  Chapelier  could  permit  his  oratory  a  full,  un- 
intimidated  flow.  And  that  considerable  oratory  was  as 
direct  and  brutal  as  the  man  himself  was  delicate  and 
elegant. 


66  The  Robe 

He  praised  the  vigour  and  the  greatness  of  the  speech 
they  had  heard  from  their  colleague  Moreau.  Above  all  he 
praised  its  wisdom.  Moreau 's  words  had  come  as  a  surprise 
to  them.  Hitherto  they  had  never  known  him  as  other  than  a 
bitter  critic  of  their  projects  of  reform  and  regeneration;  and 
quite  lately  they  had  heard,  not  without  misgivings,  of  his 
appointment  as  delegate  for  a  nobleman  in  the  States  of 
Brittany.  But  they  held  the  explanation  of  his  conversion. 
The  murder  of  their  dear  colleague  Vilmorin  had  produced 
this  change.  In  that  brutal  deed  Moreau  had  beheld  at  last 
in  true  proportions  the  workings  of  that  evil  spirit  which 
they  were  vowed  to  exorcise  from  France.  And  to-day  he 
had  proven  himself  the  stoutest  apostle  among  them  of  the 
new  faith.  He  had  pointed  out  to  them  the  only  sane  and 
useful  course.  The  illustration  he  had  borrowed  from  natural 
history  was  most  apt.  Above  all,  let  them  pack  like  the 
wolves,  and  to  ensure  this  uniformity  of  action  in  the  people 
of  all  Brittany,  let  a  delegate  at  once  be  sent  to  Nantes, 
which  had  already  proved  itself  the  real  seat  of  Brittany's 
power.  It  but  remained  to  appoint  that  delegate,  and  Le 
Chapelier  invited  them  to  elect  him. 

Andre-Louis,  on  a  bench  near  the  window,  a  prey  now  to 
some  measure  of  reaction,  listened  in  bewilderment  to  that 
flood  of  eloquence. 

As  the  applause  died  down,  he  heard  a  voice  exclaiming: 

"I  propose  to  you  that  we  appoint  our  leader  here,  Le 
Chapelier,  to  be  that  delegate." 

Le  Chapelier  reared  his  elegantly  dressed  head,  which  had 
been  bowed  in  thought,  and  it  was  seen  that  his  countenance 
was  pale.  Nervously  he  fingered  a  gold  spy-glass. 

"My  friends,"  he  said,  slowly,  "I  am  deeply  sensible  of 
the  honour  that  you  do  me.  But  in  accepting  it  I  should  be 
usurping  an  honour  that  rightly  belongs  elsewhere.  Who 
could  represent  us  better,  who  more  deserving  to  be  our 
representative,  to  speak  to  our  friends  of  Nantes  with  the 
voice  of  Rennes,  than  the  champion  who  once  already  to-day 
has  so  incomparably  given  utterance  to  the  voice  of  this 


The  Wind  67 

great  city?  Confer  this  honour  of  being  your  spokesman 
where  it  belongs  —  upon  Andr£-Louis  Moreau." 

Rising  in  response  to  the  storm  of  applause  that  greeted 
the  proposal,  Andre-Louis  bowed  and  forthwith  yielded. 

"Be  it  so,"  he  said,  simply.  "It  is  perhaps  fitting  that  I 
should  carry  out  what  I  have  begun,  though  I  too  am  of 
the  opinion  that  Le  Chapelier  would  have  been  a  worthier 
representative.  I  will  set  out  to-night." 

"You  will  set  out  at  once,  my  lad,"  Le  Chapelier  in- 
formed him,  and  now  revealed  what  an  uncharitable  mind 
might  account  the  true  source  of  his  generosity.  "  It  is  not 
safe  after  what  has  happened  for  you  to  linger  an  hour  in 
Rennes.  And  you  must  go  secretly.  Let  none  of  you  allow 
it  to  be  known  that  he  has  gone.  I  would  not  have  you  come 
to  harm  over  this,  Andr£-Louis.  But  you  must  see  the  risks 
you  run,  and  if  you  are  to  be  spared  to  help  in  this  work  of 
salvation  of  our  afflicted  motherland,  you  must  use  caution, 
move  secretly,  veil  your  identity  even.  Or  else  M.  de  Les- 
diguieres  will  have  you  laid  by  the  heels,  and  it  will  be  good- 
night for  you." 


CHAPTER  VIII 
OMNES  OMNIBUS 

ANDRE-LOUIS  rode  forth  from  Rennes  committed  to  a 
deeper  adventure  than  he  had  dreamed  of  when  he  left  the 
sleepy  village  of  Gavrillac.  Lying  the  night  at  a  roadside 
inn,  and  setting  out  again  early  in  the  morning,  he  reached 
Nantes  soon  after  noon  of  the  following  day. 

Through  that  long  and  lonely  ride  through  the  dull  plains 
of  Brittany,  now  at  their  dreariest  in  their  winter  garb,  he 
had  ample  leisure  in  which  to  review  his  actions  and  his 
position.  From  one  who  had  taken  hitherto  a  purely  aca- 
demic and  by  no  means  friendly  interest  in  the  new  philoso- 
phies of  social  life,  exercising  his  wits  upon  these  new  ideas 
merely  as  a  fencer  exercises  his  eye  and  wrist  with  the  foils, 
without  ever  suffering  himself  to  be  deluded  into  supposing 
the  issue  a  real  one,  he  found  himself  suddenly  converted 
into  a  revolutionary  firebrand,  committed  to  revolutionary 
action  of  the  most  desperate  kind.  The  representative  and 
delegate  of  a  nobleman  in  the  States  of  Brittany,  he  found 
himself  simultaneously  and  incongruously  the  representa- 
tive and  delegate  of  the  whole  Third  Estate  of  Rennes. 

It  is  difficult  to  determine  to  what  extent,  in  the  heat  of 
passion  and  swept  along  by  the  torrent  of  his  own  oratory, 
he  might  yesterday  have  succeeded  in  deceiving  himself. 
But  it  is  at  least  certain  that,  looking  back  in  cold  blood  now, 
he  had  no  single  delusion  on  the  score  of  what  he  had  done. 
Cynically  he  had  presented  to  his  audience  one  side  only 
of  the  great  question  that  he  propounded. 

But  since  the  established  order  of  things  in  France  was  such 
as  to  make  a  rampart  for  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr,  affording 
him  complete  immunity  for  this  and  any  other  crimes  that 
it  pleased  him  to  commit,  why,  then  the  established  order 


Omnes  Omnibus  69 


must  take  the  consequences  of  its  wrong-doing.  Therein  he 
perceived  his  clear  justification. 

And  so  it  was  without  misgivings  that  he  came  on  his  er- 
rand of  sedition  into  that  beautiful  city  of  Nantes,  rendered 
by  its  spacious  streets  and  splendid  port  the  rival  in  pros- 
perity of  Bordeaux  and  Marseilles. 

He  found  an  inn  on  the  Quai  La  Fosse,  where  he  put  up 
his  horse,  and  where  he  dined  in.the  embrasure  of  a  window 
that  looked  out  over  the  tree-bordered  quay  and  the  broad 
bosom  of  the  Loire,  on  which  argosies  of  all  nations  rode  at 
anchor.  The  sun  had  again  broken  through  the  clouds,  and 
shed  its  pale  wintry  light  over  the  yellow  waters  and  the 
tall-masted  shipping. 

Along  the  quays  there  was  a  stir  of  life  as  great  as  that  to 
be  seen  on  the  quays  of  Paris.  Foreign  sailors  in  outlandish 
garments  and  of  harsh-sounding,  outlandish  speech,  stal- 
wart fishwives  with  baskets  of  herrings  on  their  heads,  volu- 
minous of  petticoat  above  bare  legs  and  bare  feet,  calling 
their  wares  shrilly  and  almost  inarticulately,  watermen  in 
woollen  caps  and  loose  trousers  rolled  to  the  knees,  peasants 
in  goatskin  coats,  their  wooden  shoes  clattering  on  the  round 
kidney-stones,  shipwrights  and  labourers  from  the  dock- 
yards, bellows-menders,  rat-catchers,  water-carriers,  ink- 
sellers,  and  other  itinerant  pedlars.  And,  sprinkled  through 
this  proletariat  mass  that  came  and  went  in  constant  move- 
ment, Andr£-Louis  beheld  tradesmen  in  sober  garments, 
merchants  in  long,  fur-lined  coats ;  occasionally  a  merchant- 
prince  rolling  along  in  his  two-horse  cabriolet  to  the  whip- 
crackings  and  shouts  of  "Gare!"  from  his  coachman;  occa- 
sionally a  dainty  lady  carried  past  in  her  sedan-chair,  with 
perhaps  a  mincing  abbe  from  the  episcopal  court  tripping 
along  in  attendance ;  occasionally  an  officer  in  scarlet  riding 
disdainfully ;  and  once  the  great  carriage  of  a  nobleman,  with 
escutcheoned  panels  and  a  pair  of  white-stockinged,  pow- 
dered footmen  in  gorgeous  liveries  hanging  on  behind.  And 
there  were  Capuchins  in  brown  and  Benedictines  in  black, 
and  secular  priests  in  plenty  —  for  God  was  well  served  in 


7<3  The  Robe 

the  sixteen  parishes  of  Nantes  —  and  by  way  of  contrast 
there  were  lean-jawed,  out-at-elbow  adventurers,  and  gen- 
darmes in  blue  coats  and  gaitered  legs,  sauntering  guaidians 
of  the  peace. 

Representatives  of  every  class  that  went  to  make  up  the 
seventy  thousand  inhabitants  of  that  wealthy,  industrious 
city  were  to  be  seen  in  the  human  stream  that  ebbed  and 
flowed  beneath  the  window  from  which  Andre-Louis  ob- 
served it. 

Of  the  waiter  who  ministered  to  his  humble  wants  with 
soup  and  bouilli,  and  a  measure  of  vin  gris,  Andre-Louis 
enquired  into  the  state  of  public  feeling  in  the  city.  The 
waiter,  a  staunch  supporter  of  the  privileged  orders,  ad- 
mitted regretfully  that  an  uneasiness  prevailed.  Much 
would  depend  upon  what  happened  at  Rennes.  If  it  was 
true  that  the  King  had  dissolved  the  States  of  Brittany,  then 
all  should  be  well,  and  the  malcontents  would  have  no  pre- 
text for  further  disturbances.  There  had  been  trouble  and 
to  spare  in  Nantes  already.  They  wanted  no  repetition  of  it. 
All  manner  of  rumours  were  abroad,  and  since  early  morn- 
ing there  had  been  crowds  besieging  the  portals  of  the 
Chamber  of  Commerce  for  definite  news.  But  definite  news 
was  yet  to  come.  It  was  not  even  known  for  a  fact  that  His 
Majesty  actually  had  dissolved  the  States. 

It  was  striking  two,  the  busiest  hour  of  the  day  upon  the 
Bourse,  when  Andr6-Louis  reached  the  Place  du  Commerce. 
The  square,  dominated  by  the  imposing  classical  building 
of  the  Exchange,  was  so  crowded  that  he  was  compelled  al- 
most to  fight  his  way  through  to  the  steps  of  the  magnificent 
Ionic  porch.  A  word  would  have  sufficed  to  have  opened  a 
way  for,  him  at  once.  But  guile  moved  him  to  keep  silent. 
He  would  come  upon  that  waiting  multitude  as  a  thunder- 
clap, precisely  as  yesterday  he  had  come  upon  the  mob  at 
Rennes.  He  would  lose  nothing  of  the  surprise  effect  of  his 
entrance. 

The  precincts  of  that  house  of  commerce  were  jealously 
kept  by  a  line  of  ushers  armed  with  staves,  a  guard  as  hur- 


Omnes  Omnibus  71 


riedly  assembled  by  the  merchants  as  it  was  evidently  neces- 
sary. One  of  these  now  effectively  barred  the  young  lawyer's 
passage  as  he  attempted  to  mount  the  steps. 

Andr£-Louis  announced  himself  in  a  whisper. 

The  stave  was  instantly  raised  from  the  horizontal,  and 
he  passed  and  went  up  the  steps  in  the  wake  of  the  usher. 
At  the  top,  on  the  threshold  of  the  chamber,  he  paused, 
and  stayed  his  guide. 

"I  will  wait  here,"  he  announced.  "Bring  the  president 
to  me." 

"Your  name,  monsieur?" 

Almost  had  Andr£-Louis  answered  him  when  he  remem- 
bered Le  Chapelier's  warning  of  the  danger  with  which  his 
mission  was  fraught,  and  Le  Chapelier's  parting  admonition 
to  conceal  his  identity. 

"My  name  is  unknown  to  him;  it  matters  nothing;  I  am 
the  mouthpiece  of  a  people,  no  more.  Go." 

The  usher  went,  and  in  the  shadow  of  that  lofty,  pillared 
portico  Andr£-Louis  waited,  his  eyes  straying  out  ever  and 
anon  to  survey  that  spread  of  upturned  faces  immediately 
below  him. 

Soon  the  president  came,  others  following,  crowding  out 
into  the  portico,  jostling  one  another  in  their  eagerness  to 
hear  the  news. 

"You  are  a  messenger  from  Rennes?" 

"  I  am  the  delegate  sent  by  the  Literary  Chamber  of  that 
city  to  inform  you  here  in  Nantes  of  what  is  taking  place." 

"Your  name?" 

Andr£-Louis  paused.  "The  less  we  mention  names  per- 
haps the  better." 

The  president's  eyes  grew  big  with  gravity.  He  was  a 
corpulent,  florid  man,  purse-proud,  and  self-sufficient. 

He  hesitated  a  moment.  Then  —  "Come  into  the 
Chamber,"  said  he. 

"By  your  leave,  monsieur,  I  will  deliver  my  message 
from  here  —  from  these  steps." 

"From  here?"  The  great  merchant  frowned. 


72  The  Robe 

"My  message  is  for  the  people  of  Nantes,  and  from  here 
I  can  speak  at  once  to  the  greatest  number  of  Nantais  of 
all  ranks,  and  it  is  my  desire  —  and  the  desire  of  those  whom 
I  represent  —  that  as  great  a  number  as  possible  should 
hear  my  message  at  first  hand." 

"Tell  me,  sir,  is  it  true  that  the  King  has  dissolved  the 
States?" 

Andre-Louis  looked  at  him.  He  smiled  apologetically, 
and  waved  a  hand  towards  the  crowd,  which  by  now  was 
Straining  for  a  glimpse  of  this  slim  young  man  who  had 
brought  forth  the  president  and  more  than  half  the  mem- 
bers of  the  Chamber,  guessing  already,  with  that  curious 
instinct  of  crowds,  that  he  was  the  awaited  bearer  of  tidings. 

"Summon  the  gentlemen  of  your  Chamber,  monsieur," 
said  he,  "and  you  shall  hear  all." 

"So  be  it." 

A  word,  and  forth  they  came  to  crowd  upon  the  steps, 
but  leaving  clear  the  topmost  step  and  a  half-moon  space 
in  the  middle. 

To  the  spot  so  indicated,  Andre-Louis  now  advanced  very 
deliberately.  He  took  his  stand  there,  dominating  the  entire 
assembly.  He  removed  his  hat,  and  launched  the  opening 
bombshell  of  that  address  which  is  historic,  marking  as  it 
does  one  of  the  great  stages  of  France's  progress  towards 
revolution. 

"People  of  this  great  city  of  Nantes,  I  have  come  to 
summon  you  to  arms!" 

In  the  amazed  and  rather  scared  silence  that  followed  he 
surveyed  them  for  a  moment  before  resuming. 

"I  am  a  delegate  of  the  people  of  Rennes,  charged  to  an- 
nounce to  you  what  is  taking  place,  and  to  invite  you  in  this 
dreadful  hour  of  our  country's  peril  to  rise  and  march  to 
her  defence." 

"Name!  Your  name!"  a  voice  shouted,  and  instantly  the 
cry  was  taken  up  by  others,  until  the  multitude  rang  with 
the  question. 

He  could  not  answer  that  excited  mob  as  he  had  answered 


Omnes  Omnibus  73 


the  president.  It  was  necessary  to  compromise,  and  he  did 
so,  happily.  "My  name,"  said  he,  "is  Omnes  Omnibus  — 
all  for  all.  Let  that  suffice  you  now.  I  am  a  herald,  a  mouth- 
piece, a  voice;  no  more.  I  come  to  announce  to  you  that 
since  the  privileged  orders,  assembled  for  the  States  of 
Brittany  in  Rennes,  resisted  your  will  —  our  will  —  despite 
the  King's  plain  hint  to  them,  His  Majesty  has  dissolved 
the  States." 

There  was  a  burst  of  delirious  applause.  Men  laughed 
and  shouted,  and  cries  of  "Vive  le  Roi!"  rolled  forth  like 
thunder.  Andre-Louis  waited,  and  gradually  the  preter- 
natural gravity  of  his  countenance  came  to  be  observed, 
and  to  beget  the  suspicion  that  there  might  be  more  to 
follow.  Gradually  silence  was  restored,  and  at  last  Andrd- 
Louis  was  able  to  proceed. 

"You  rejoice  too  soon.  Unfortunately,  the  nobles,  in  their 
insolent  arrogance,  have  elected  to  ignore  the  royal  disso- 
lution, and  in  despite  of  it  persist  in  sitting  and  in  con- 
ducting matters  as  seems  good  to  them." 

A  silence  of  utter  dismay  greeted  that  disconcerting  epi- 
logue to  the  announcement  that  had  been  so  rapturously 
received.  Andre-Louis  continued  after  a  moment's  pause: 

"So  that  these  men  who  were  already  rebels  against  the 
people,  rebels  against  justice  and  equity,  rebels  against 
humanity  itself,  are  now  also  rebels  against  their  King. 
Sooner  than  yield  an  inch  of  the  unconscionable  privileges 
by  which  too  long  already  they  have  flourished,  to  the 
misery  of  a  whole  nation,  they  will  make  a  mock  of  royal 
authority,  hold  up  the  King  himself  to  contempt.  They 
are  determined  to  prove  that  there  is  no  real  sovereignty  in 
France  but  the  sovereignty  of  their  own  parasitic  fainean- 
tise." 

There  was  a  faint  splutter  of  applause,  but  the  majority 
of  the  audience  remained  silent,  waiting. 

"  This  is  no  new  thing.  Always  has  it  been  the  same.  No 
minister  in  the  last  ten  years,  who,  seeing  the  needs  and 
perils  of  the  State,  counselled  the  measures  that  we  now 


74  The  Robe 

demand  as  the  only  means  of  arresting  our  motherland  in 
its  ever-quickening  progress  to  the  abyss,  but  found  himself 
as  a  consequence  cast  out  of  office  by  the  influence  which 
Privilege  brought  to  bear  against  him.  Twice  already  has 
M.  Necker  been  called  to  the  ministry,  to  be  twice  dismissed 
when  his  insistent  counsels  of  reform  threatened  the  privi- 
leges of  clergy  and  nobility.  For  the  third  time  now  has  he 
been  called  to  office,  and  at  last  it  seems  we  are  to  have 
States  General  in  spite  of  Privilege.  But  what  the  privileged 
orders  can  no  longer  prevent,  they  are  determined  to  stul- 
tify. Since  it  is  now  a  settled  thing  that  these  States  General 
are  to  meet,  at  least  the  nobles  and  the  clergy  will  see  to  it  — 
unless  we  take  measures  to  prevent  them  —  by  packing  the 
Third  Estate  with  their  own  creatures,  and  denying  it  all 
effective  representation,  that  they  convert  the  States  Gen- 
eral into  an  instrument  of  their  own  will  for  the  perpetuation 
of  the  abuses  by  which  they  live.  To  achieve  this  end  they 
will  stop  at  nothing.  They  have  flouted  the  authority  of  the 
King,  and  they  are  silencing  by  assassination  those  who 
raise  their  voices  to  condemn  them.  Yesterday  in  Rennes 
two  young  men  who  addressed  the  people  as  I  am  addressing 
you  were  done  to  death  in  the  streets  by  assassins  at  the 
instigation  of  the  nobility.  Their  blood  cries  out  for  ven- 
geance." 

Beginning  in  a  sullen  mutter,  the  indignation  that  moved 
his  hearers  swelled  up  to  express  itself  in  a  roar  of  anger. 

"Citizens  of  Nantes,  the  motherland  is  in  peril.  Let  us 
march  to  her  defence.  Let  us  proclaim  it  to  the  world  that 
we  recognize  that  the  measures  to  liberate  the  Third  Estate 
from  the  slavery  in  which  for  centuries  it  has  groaned  find 
only  obstacles  in  those  orders  whose  phrenetic  egotism  sees 
in  the  tears  and  suffering  of  the  unfortunate  an  odious 
tribute  which  they  would  pass  on  to  their  generations  still 
unborn.  Realizing  from  the  barbarity  of  the  means  em- 
ployed by  our  enemies  to  perpetuate  our  oppression  that  we 
have  everything  to  fear  from  the  aristocracy  they  would 
set  up  as  a  constitutional  principle  for  the  governing  of 


Omnes  Omnibus  75 


France,  let  us  declare  ourselves  at  once  enfranchised  from 
it. 

"The  establishment  of  liberty  and  equality  should  be  the 
aim  of  every  citizen  member  of  the  Third  Estate;  and  to 
this  end  we  should  stand  indivisibly  united,  especially 
the  young  and  vigorous,  especially  those  who  have  had  the 
good  fortune  to  be  born  late  enough  to  be  able  to  gather 
for  themselves  the  precious  fruits  of  the  philosophy  of  this 
eighteenth  century." 

Acclamations  broke  out  unstintedly  now.  He  had  caught 
them  in  the  snare  of  his  oratory.  And  he  pressed  his  ad- 
vantage instantly. 

"Let  us  all  swear,"  he  cried  in  a  great  voice,  "to  raise  up 
in  the  name  of  humanity  and  of  liberty  a  rampart  against 
our  enemies,  to  oppose  to  their  bloodthirsty  covetousness 
the  calm  perseverance  of  men  whose  cause  is  just.  And  let 
us  protest  here  and  in  advance  against  any  tyrannical  de- 
crees that  should  declare  us  seditious  when  we  have  none 
but  pure  and  just  intentions.  Let  us  make  oath  upon  the 
honour  of  our  motherland  that  should  any  of  us  be  seized 
by  an  unjust  tribunal,  intending  against  us  one  of  those 
acts  termed  of  political  expediency  —  which  are,  in  effect,  but 
acts  of  despotism  —  let  us  swear,  I  say,  to  give  a  full  ex- 
pression to  the  strength  that  is  in  us  and  do  that  in  self- 
defence  which  nature,  courage,  and  despair  dictate  to  us." 

Loud  and  long  rolled  the  applause  that  greeted  his  con- 
clusion, and  he  observed  with  satisfaction  and  even  some 
inward  grim  amusement  that  the  wealthy  merchants  who 
had  been  congregated  upon  the  steps,  and  who  now  came 
crowding  about  him  to  shake  him  by  the  hand  and  to 
acclaim  him,  were  not  merely  participants  in,  but  the  actual 
leaders  of,  this  delirium  of  enthusiasm. 

It  confirmed  him,  had  he  needed  confirmation,  in  his 
conviction  that  just  as  the  philosophies  upon  which  this 
new  movement  was  based  had  their  source  in  thinkers  ex- 
tracted from  the  bourgeoisie,  so  the  need  to  adopt  those 
philosophies  to  the  practical  purposes  of  life  was  most 


76    The  Robe 

acutely  felt  at  present  by  those  bourgeois  who  found  them- 
selves debarred  by  Privilege  from  the  expansion  their 
wealth  permitted  them.  If  it  might  be  said  of  Andr6-Louis 
that  he  had  that  day  lighted  the  torch  of  the  Revolution  in 
Nantes,  it  might  with  even  greater  truth  be  said  that  the 
torch  itself  was  supplied  by  the  opulent  bourgeoisie. 

I  need  not  dwell  at  any  length  upon  the  sequel.  It  is  a 
matter  of  history  how  that  oath  which  Omnes  Omnibus 
administered  to  the  citizens  of  Nantes  formed  the  back- 
bone of  the  formal  protest  which  they  drew  up  and  signed 
in  their  thousands.  Nor  were  the  results  of  that  powerful 
protest  —  which,  after  all,  might  already  be  said  to  harmo- 
nize with  the  expressed  will  of  the  sovereign  himself  —  long 
delayed.  Who  shall  say  how  far  it  may  have  strengthened 
the  hand  of  Necker,  when  on  the  27th  of  that  same  month 
of  November  he  compelled  the  Council  to  adopt  the  most 
significant  and  comprehensive  of  all  those  measures  to  which 
clergy  and  nobility  had  refused  their  consent?  On  that  date 
was  published  the  royal  decree  ordaining  that  the  deputies 
to  be  elected  to  the  States  General  should  number  at  least 
one  thousand,  and  that  the  deputies  of  the  Third  Estate 
should  be  fully  representative  by  numbering  as  many  as  the 
deputies  of  clergy  and  nobility  together. 


CHAPTER  IX 
THE  AFTERMATH 

DUSK  of  the  following  day  was  falling  when  the  homing 
Andr6-Louis  approached  Gavrillac.  Realizing  fully  what  a 
hue  and  cry  there  would  presently  be  for  the  apostle  of 
revolution  who  had  summoned  the  people  of  Nantes  to 
arms,  he  desired  as  far  as  possible  to  conceal  the  fact  that 
he  had  been  in  that  maritime  city.  Therefore  he  made  a 
wide  d£tour,  crossing  the  river  at  Bruz,  and  recrossing  it  a 
little  above  Chavagne,  so  as  to  approach  Gavrillac  from  the 
north,  and  create  the  impression  that  he  was  returning  from 
Rennes,  whither  he  was  known  to  have  gone  two  days  ago. 

Within  a  mile  or  so  of  the  village  he  caught  in  the  fading 
light  his  first  glimpse  of  a  figure  on  horseback  pacing  slowly 
towards  him.  But  it  was  not  until  they  had  come  within  a 
few  yards  of  each  other,  and  he  observed  that  this  cloaked 
figure  was  leaning  forward  to  peer  at  him,  that  he  took 
much  notice  of  it.  And  then  he  found  himself  challenged 
almost  at  once  by  a  woman's  voice. 

"It  is  you,  Andr6  —  at  last!" 

He  drew  rein,  mildly  surprised,  to  be  assailed  by  another 
question,  impatiently,  anxiously  asked. 

"Where  have  you  been?" 

"Where  have  I  been,  Cousin  Aline?  Oh  .  .  .  seeing  the 
world." 

"  I  have  been  patrolling  this  road  since  noon  to-day, 
waiting  for  you."  She  spoke  breathlessly,  in  haste  to  ex- 
plain. "A  troop  of  the  marechaussee  from  Rennes  de- 
scended upon  Gavrillac  this  morning  in  quest  of  you.  They 
turned  the  chateau  and  the  village  inside  out,  and  at  last 
discovered  that  you  were  due  to  return  with  a  horse  hired 
from  the  Breton  Arm£.  So  they  have  taken  up  their  quarters 


78  The  Robe 

at  the  inn  to  wait  for  you.  I  have  been  here  all  the  after- 
noon on  the  lookout  to  warn  you  against  walking  into  that 
trap." 

"My  dear  Aline!  That  I  should  have  been  the  cause  of  so 
much  concern  and  trouble!" 

"  Never  mind  that.   It  is  not  important." 

"On  the  contrary;  it  is  the  most  important  part  of  what 
you  tell  me.  It  is  the  rest  that  is  unimportant." 

"Do  you  realize  that  they  have  come  to  arrest  you?"  she 
asked  him,  with  increasing  impatience.  "You  are  wanted 
for  sedition,  and  upon  a  warrant  from  M.  de  Lesdiguieres." 

"Sedition?"  quoth  he,  and  his  thoughts  flew  to  that 
business  at  Nantes.  It  was  impossible  they  could  have  had 
news  of  it  in  Rennes  and  acted  upon  it  in  so  short  a  time'. 

"Yes,  sedition.  The  sedition  of  that  wicked  speech  of 
yours  at  Rennes  on  Wednesday." 

"Oh,  that!"  said  he.  "Pooh!"  His  note  of  relief  might 
have  told  her,  had  she  been  more  attentive,  that  he  had  to 
fear  the  consequences  of  a  greater  wickedness  committed 
since.  "Why,  that  was  nothing." 

"Nothing?" 

"I  almost  suspect  that  the  real  intentions  of  these  gentle- 
men of  the  mar6chaussee  have  been  misunderstood.  Most 
probably  they  have  come  to  thank  me  on  M.  de  Lesdiguieres' 
behalf.  I  restrained  the  people  when  they  would  have  burnt 
the  Palais  and  himself  inside  it." 

"After  you  had  first  incited  them  to  do  it.  I  suppose  you 
were  afraid  of  your  work.  You  drew  back  at  the  last  mo- 
ment. But  you  said  things  of  M.  de  Lesdiguieres,  if  you  are 
correctly  reported,  which  he  will  never  forgive." 

"I  see,"  said  Andr£-Louis,  and  he  fell  into  thought. 

But  Mile,  de  Kercadiou  had  already  done  what  thinking 
was  necessary,  and  her  alert  young  mind  had  settled  all  that 
was  to  be  done. 

"You  must  not  go  into  Gavrillac,"  she  told  him,  "and 
you  must  get  down  from  your  horse,  and  let  me  take  it.  I 
will  stable  it  at  the  chateau  to-night.  And  sometime  to- 


The  Aftermath  79 


morrow  afternoon,  by  when  you  should  be  well  away,  I  will 
return  it  to  the  Breton  Arme." 

"Oh,  but  that  is  impossible." 

"Impossible?  Why?" 

"For  several  reasons.  One  of  them  is  that  you  have  n't 
considered  what  will  happen  to  you  if  you  do  such  a  thing." 

"To  me?  Do  you  suppose  I  am  afraid  of  that  pack  of 
oafs  sent  by  M.  Lesdigui^res?  I  have  committed  no 
sedition." 

"But  it  is  almost  as  bad  to  give  aid  to  one  who  is  wanted 
for  the  crime.  That  is  the  law." 

"What  do  I  care  for  the  law?  Do  you  imagine  that  the 
law  will  presume  to  touch  me?" 

"Of  course  there  is  that.  You  are  sheltered  by  one  of  the 
abuses  I  complained  of  at  Rennes.  I  was  forgetting." 

"Complain  of  it  as  much  as  you  please,  but  meanwhile 
profit  by  it.  Come,  Andr6,  do  as  I  tell  you.  Get  down  from 
your  horse."  And  then,  as  he  still  hesitated,  she  stretched 
out  and  caught  him  by  the  arm.  Her  voice  was  vibrant  with 
earnestness.  "Andre,  you  don't  realize  how  serious  is  your 
position.  If  these  people  take  you,  it  is  almost  certain  that 
you  will  be  hanged.  Don't  you  realize  it?  You  must  not  go 
to  Gavrillac.  You  must  go  away  at  once,  and  lie  completely 
lost  for  a  time  until  this  blows  over.  Indeed,  until  my  uncle 
can  bring  influence  to  bear  to  obtain  your  pardon,  you 
must  keep  in  hiding." 

"That  will  be  a  long  time,  then,"  said  Andr6-Louis. 
"M.  de  Kercadiou  has  never  cultivated  friends  at  court." 

"There  is  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr,"  she  reminded  him,  to 
his  astonishment. 

"That  man!"  he  cried,  and  then  he  laughed.  "But  it 
was  chiefly  against  him  that  I  aroused  the  resentment  of 
the  people  of  Rennes.  I  should  have  known  that  all  my 
speech  was  not  reported  to  you." 

"It  was,  and  that  part  of  it  among  the  rest." 

"Ah!  And  yet  you  are  concerned  to  save  me,  the  man 
who  seeks  the  life  of  your  future  husband  at  the  hands 


8o  The  Robe  . 

either  of  the  law  or  of  the  people?  Or  is  it,  perhaps,  that 
since  you  have  seen  his  true  nature  revealed  in  the  murder 
of  poor  Philippe,  you  have  changed  your  views  on  the  sub- 
ject of  becoming  Marquise  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr?" 

"You  often  show  yourself  without  any  faculty  of  de- 
ductive reasoning." 

"Perhaps.  But  hardly  to  the  extent  of  imagining  that 
M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr  will  ever  lift  a  finger  to  do  as  you 
suggest." 

"In  which,  as  usual,  you  are  wrong.  He  will  certainly  do 
so  if  I  ask  him." 

"If  you  ask  him?"  Sheer  horror  rang  in  his  voice. 

"Why,  yes.  You  see,  I  have  not  yet  said  that  I  will  be 
Marquise  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr.  I  am  still  considering.  It  is 
a  position  that  has  its  advantages.  One  of  them  is  that  it 
ensures  a  suitor's  complete  obedience." 

"So,  so.  I  see  the  crooked  logic  of  your  mind.  You  might 
go  so  far  as  to  say  to  him:  'Refuse  me  this,  and  I  shall  refuse 
to  be  your  marquise.'  You  would  go  so  far  as  that?" 

"At  need,  I  might." 

"And  do  you  not  see  the  converse  implication?  Do  you 
not  see  that  your  hands  would  then  be  tied,  that  you  would 
be  wanting  in  honour  if  afterwards  you  refused  him?  And 
do  you  think  that  I  would  consent  to  anything  that  could  so 
tie  your  hands?  Do  you  think  I  want  to  see  you  damned, 
Aline?" 

Her  hand  fell  away  from  his  arm. 

"Oh,  you  are  mad!"  she  exclaimed,  quite  out  of  patience. 

"Possibly.  But  I  like  my  madness.  There  is  a  thrill  in  it 
unknown  to  such  sanity  as  yours.  By  your  leave,  Aline,  I 
think  I  will  ride  on  to  Gavrillac." 

" Andr6,  you  must  not!  It  is  death  to  you !"  In  her  alarm 
she  backed  her  horse,  and  pulled  it  across  the  road  to  bar 
his  way. 

It  was  almost  completely  night  by  now ;  but  from  behind 
the  wrack  of  clouds  overhead  a  crescent  moon  sailed  out  to 
alleviate  the  darkness. 


The  Aftermath  81 


"Come,  now,"  she  enjoined  him.  "Be  reasonable.  Do 
as  I  bid  you.  See,  there  is  a  carriage  coming  up  behind  you. 
Do  not  let  us  be  found  here  together  thus." 

He  made  up  his  mind  quickly.  He  was  not  the  man  to  be 
actuated  by  false  heroics  about  dying,  and  he  had  no  fancy 
whatever  for  the  gallows  of  M.  de  Lesdiguieres'  providing. 
The  immediate  task  that  he  had  set  himself  might  be  accom- 
plished. He  had  made  heard  —  and  ringingly  —  the  voice 
that  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr  imagined  he  had  silenced.  But 
he  was  very  far  from  having  done  with  life. 

"Aline,  on  one  condition  only." 

"And  that?" 

"That  you  swear  to  me  you  will  never  seek  the  aid  of 
M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr  on  my  behalf." 

"Since  you  insist,  and  as  time  presses,  I  consent.  And 
now  ride  on  with  me  as  far  as  the  lane.  There  is  that  car- 
riage coming  up." 

The  lane  to  which  she  referred  was  one  that  branched  off 
the  road  some  three  hundred  yards  nearer  the  village  and 
led  straight  up  the  hill  to  the  chateau  itself.  In  silence  they 
rode  together  towards  it,  and  together  they  turned  into  that 
thickly  hedged  and  narrow  bypath.  At  a  depth  of  fifty 
yards  she  halted  him. 

"Now!"  she  bade  him. 

Obediently  he  swung  down  from  his  horse,  and  surren- 
dered the  reins  to  her. 

"Aline,"  he  said,  "I  haven't  words  in  which  to  thank 
you." 

"It  is  n't  necessary,"  said  she. 

"But  I  shall  hope  to  repay  you  some  day." 

"Nor  is  that  necessary.  Could  I  do  less  than  I  am  doing? 
I  do  not  want  to  hear  of  you  hanged,  Andr£;  nor  does  my 
uncle,  though  he  is  very  angry  with  you." 

"I  suppose  he  is." 

"And  you  can  hardly  be  surprised.  You  were  his  dele- 
gate, his  representative.  He  depended  upon  you,  and  you 
have  turned  your  coat.  He  is  rightly  indignant,  calls  you  a 


82  The  Robe 

traitor,  and  swears  that  he  will  never  speak  to  you  again. 
But  he  does  n't  want  you  hanged,  AndreV' 

"Then  we  are  agreed  on  that  at  least,  for  I  don't  want  it 
myself." 

"I'll  make  your  peace  with  him.  And  now  —  good-bye, 
Andre.  Send  me  a  word  when  you  are  safe." 

She  held  out  a  hand  that  looked  ghostly  in  the  faint  light. 
He  took  it  and  bore  it  to  his  lips. 

"God  bless  you,  Aline." 

She  was  gone,  and  he  stood  listening  to  the  receding  clop- 
per-clop  of  hooves  until  it  grew  faint  in  the  distance.  Then 
slowly,  with  shoulders  hunched  and  head  sunk  on  his  breast, 
he  retraced  his  steps  to  the  main  road,  cogitating  whither  he 
should  go.  Quite  suddenly  he  checked,  remembering  with 
dismay  that  he  was  almost  entirely  without  money.  In 
Brittany  itself  he  knew  of  no  dependable  hiding-place,  and 
as  long  as  he  was  in  Brittany  his  peril  must  remain  immi- 
nent. Yet  to  leave  the  province,  and  to  leave  it  as  quickly 
as  prudence  dictated,  horses  would  be  necessary.  And  how 
was  he  to  procure  horses,  having  no  money  beyond  a  single 
louis  d'or  and  a  few  pieces  of  silver? 

There  was  also  the  fact  that  he  was  very  weary.  He  had 
had  little  sleep  since  Tuesday  night,  and  not  very  much 
then ;  and  much  of  the  time  had  been  spent  in  the  saddle,  a 
wearing  thing  to  one  so  little  accustomed  to  long  rides. 
Worn  as  he  was,  it  was  unthinkable  that  he  should  go  far 
to-night.  He  might  get  as  far  as  Chavagne,  perhaps.  But 
there  he  must  sup  and  sleep;  and  what,  then,  of  to-morrow? 

Had  he  but  thought  of  it  before,  perhaps  Aline  might 
have  been  able  to  assist  him  with  the  loan  of  a  few  louis. 
His  first  impulse  now  was  to  follow  her  to  the  ch&teau.  But 
prudence  dismissed  the  notion.  Before  he  could  reach  her, 
he  must  be  seen  by  servants,  and  word  of  his  presence 
would  go  forth. 

There  was  no  choice  for  him;  he  must  tramp  as  far  ac 
Chavagne,  find  a  bed  there,  and  leave  to-morrow  until  it 
dawned.  On  the  resolve  he  set  his  face  in  the  direction 


The  Aftermath  83 


whence  he  had  come.  But  again  he  paused.  Chavagne  lay 
on  the  road  to  Rennes.  To  go  that  way  was  to  plunge  fur- 
ther into  danger.  He  would  strike  south  again.  At  the  foot 
of  some  meadows  on  this  side  of  the  village  there  was  a  ferry 
that  would  put  him  across  the  river.  Thus  he  would  avoid 
the  village;  and  by  placing  the  river  between  himself  and  the 
immediate  danger,  he  would  obtain  an  added  sense  of  se- 
curity. 

A  lane,  turning  out  of  the  highroad,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  this 
side  of  Gavrillac,  led  down  to  that  ferry.  By  this  lane  some 
twenty  minutes  later  came  Andr6-Louis  with  dragging  feet. 
He  avoided  the  little  cottage  of  the  ferryman,  whose  window 
was  alight,  and  in  the  dark  crept  down  to  the  boat,  intend- 
ing if  possible  to  put  himself  across.  He  felt  for  the  chain  by 
which  the  boat  was  moored,  and  ran  his  fingers  along  this  to 
the  point  where  it  was  fastened.  Here  to  his  dismay  he 
found  a  padlock. 

He  stood  up  in  the  gloom  and  laughed  silently.  Of  course 
he  might  have  known  it.  The  ferry  was  the  property  of  M. 
de  La  Tour  d'Azyr,  and  not  likely  to  be  left  unfastened  so 
that  poor  devils  might  cheat  him  of  seigneurial  dues. 

There  being]  no  possible  alternative,  he  walked  back  to 
the  cottage,  and  rapped  on  the  door.  When  it  opened,  he 
stood  well  back,  and  aside,  out  of  the  shaft  of  light  that 
issued  thence. 

"Ferry!"  he  rapped  out,  laconically. 

The  ferryman,  a  burly  scoundrel  well  known  to  him, 
turned  aside  to  pick  up  a  lantern,  and  came  forth  as  he  was 
bidden.  As  he  stepped  from  the  little  porch,  he  levelled  the 
lantern  so  that  its  light  fell  on  the  face  of  this  traveller. 

"My  God!"  he  ejaculated. 

"You  realize,  I  see,  that  I  am  pressed,"  said  Andr6- 
Louis,  his  eyes  on  the  fellow's  startled  countenance. 

"And  well  you  may  be  with  the  gallows  waiting  for  you  at 
Rennes,"  growled  the  ferryman.  "Since  you've  been  so 
foolish  as  to  come  back  to  Gavrillac,  you  had  better  go  again 
as  quickly  as  you  can.  I  will  say  nothing  of  having  seen  you." 


84 The  Robe 

"  I  thank  you,  Fresnel.  Your  advice  accords  with  my  in- 
tention. That  is  why  I  need  the  boat." 

"Ah,  that,  no,"  said  Fresnel,  with  determination.  "I'll 
hold  my  peace,  but  it 's  as  much  as  my  skin  is  worth  to  help 
you." 

"You  need  not  have  seen  my  face.  Forget  that  you  have 
seen  it." 

" I'll  do  that,  monsieur.  But  that  is  all  I  will  do.  I  cannot 
put  you  across  the  river." 

"Then  give  me  the  key  of  the  boat,  and  I  will  put  myself 
across." 

"That  is  the  same  thing.  I  cannot.  I  '11  hold  my  tongue, 
but  I  will  not  —  I  dare  not  —  help  you." 

Andre-Louis  looked  a  moment  into  that  sullen,  resolute 
face,  and  understood.  This  man,  living  under  the  shadow  of 
La  Tour  d'Azyr,  dared  exercise  no  will  that  might  be  in  con- 
flict with  the  will  of  his  dread  lord. 

"Fresnel,"  he  said,  quietly,  "if,  as  you  say,  the  gallows 
claim  me,  the  thing  that  has  brought  me  to  this  extremity 
arises  out  of  the  shooting  of  Mabey.  Had  not  Mabey  been 
murdered  there  would  have  been  no  need  for  me  to  have 
raised  my  voice  as  I  have  done.  Mabey  was  your  friend,  I 
think.  Will  you  for  his  sake  lend  me  the  little  help  I  need  to 
save  my  neck?" 

The  man  kept  his  glance  averted,  and  the  cloud  of  sullen- 
ness  deepened  on  his  face. 

"I  would  if  I  dared,  but  I  dare  not."  Then,  quite  sud- 
denly he  became  angry.  It  was  as  if  in  anger  he  sought  sup- 
port. "Don't  you  understand  that  I  dare  not?  Would  yor 
have  a  poor  man  risk  his  life  for  you?  What  have  you  01 
yours  ever  done  for  me  that  you  should  ask  that?  You  do 
not  cross  to-night  in  my  ferry.  Understand  that,  monsieur, 
and  go  at  once  —  go  before  I  remember  that  it  may  be  dan- 
gerous even  to  have  talked  to  you  and  not  give  information. 
Go!" 

.  He  turned  on  his  heel  to  reenter  his  cottage,  and  a  wave  of 
hopelessness  swept  over  Andre-Louis. 


The  Aftermath  85 


But  in  a  second  it  was  gone.  The  man  must  be  compelled, 
and  he  had  the  means.  He  bethought  him  of  a  pistol  pressed 
upon  him  by  Le  Chapelier  at  the  moment  of  his  leaving 
Rennes,  a  gift  which  at  the  time  he  had  almost  disdained. 
True,  it  was  not  loaded,  and  he  had  no  ammunition.  But 
how  was  Fresnel  to  know  that? 

He  acted  quickly.  As  with  his  right  hand  he  pulled  it 
from  his  pocket,  with  his  left  he  caught  the  ferryman  by  the 
shoulder,  and  swung  him  round. 

"What  do  you  want  now?"  Fresnel  demanded  angrily. 
"Have  n't  I  told  you  that  I  ..." 

He  broke  off  short.  The  muzzle  of  the  pistol  was  within  a 
foot  of  his  eyes. 

"I  want  the  key  of  the  boat.  That  is  all,  Fresnel.  And 
you  can  either  give  it  me  at  once,  or  I'll  take  it  after  I 
have  burnt  your  brains.  I  should  regret  to  kill  you,  but  I 
shall  not  hesitate.  It  is  your  life  against  mine,  Fresnel;  and 
you'll  not  find  it  strange  that  if  one  of  us  must  die  I  pre- 
fer that  it  shall  be  you." 

Fresnel  dipped  a  hand  into  his  pocket,  and  fetched  thence 
a  key.  He  held  it  out  to  Andre-Louis  in  fingers  that  shook  — 
more  in  anger  than  in  fear. 

"I  yield  to  violence,"  he  said,  showing  his  teeth  like  a 
snarling  dog.  "But  don't  imagine  that  it  will  greatly  profit 
you." 

Andr6-Louis  took  the  key.  His  pistol  remained  levelled. 

"You  threaten  me,  I  think,"  he  said.  "It  is  not  difficult 
to  read  your  threat.  The  moment  I  am  gone,  you  will  run 
to  inform  against  me.  You  will  set  the  mar£chaussee  on  my 
heels  to  overtake  me." 

"No,  no!"  cried  the  other.  He  perceived  his  peril.  He 
read  his  doom  in  the  cold,  sinister  note  on  which  Andr6- 
Louis  addressed  him,  and  grew  afraid.  "I  swear  to  you, 
monsieur,  that  I  have  no  such  intention." 

"I  think  I  had  better  make  quite  sure  of  you." 

"O  my  God !  Have  mercy,  monsieur!"  The  knave  was  in 
a  palsy  of  terror.  "I  mean  you  no  harm — I  swear  to 


86  The  Robe 

Heaven  I  mean  you  no  harm.  I  will  not  say  a  word.  I  will 
not  .  .  ." 

"I  would  rather  depend  upon  your  silence  than  your  as-> 
surances.  Still,  you  shall  have  your  chance.  I  am  a  fool, 
perhaps,  but  I  have  a  reluctance  to  shed  blood.  Go  into  the 
house,  Fresnel.  Go,  man.  I  follow  you." 

In  the  shabby  main  room  of  that  dwelling,  Andr6-Louis 
halted  him  again.  "Get  me  a  length  of  rope,"  he  com- 
manded, and  was  readily  obeyed. 

Five  minutes  later  Fresnel  was  securely  bound  to  a  chair, 
and  effectively  silenced  by  a  very  uncomfortable  gag  im- 
provised out  of  a  block  of  wood  and  a  muffler. 

On  the  threshold  the  departing  Andre-Louis  turned. 

"Good-night,  Fresnel,"  he  said.  Fierce  eyes  glared  mute 
hatred  at  him.  "It  is  unlikely  that  your  ferry  will  be  re- 
quired again  to-night.  But  some  one  is  sure  to  come  to 
your  relief  quite  early  in  the  morning.  Until  then  bear  your 
discomfort  with  what  fortitude  you  can,  remembering  that 
you  have  brought  it  entirely  upon  yourself  by  your  un- 
charitableness.  If  you  spend  the  night  considering  that,  the 
lesson  should  not  be  lost  upon  you.  By  morning  you  may 
even  have  grown  so  charitable  as  not  to  know  who  it  was 
that  tied  you  up.  Good-night." 

He  stepped  out  and  closed  the  door. 

To  unlock  the  ferry,  and  pull  himself  across  the  swift- 
running  waters,  on  which  the  faint  moonlight  was  making 
a  silver  ripple,  were  matters  that  engaged  not  more  than 
six  or  seven  minutes.  He  drove  the  nose  of  the  boat  through 
the  decaying  sedges  that  fringed  the  southern  bank  of  the 
stream,  sprang  ashore,  and  made  the  little  craft  secure. 
Then,  missing  the  footpath  in  the  dark,  he  struck  out  across 
a  sodden  meadow  in  quest  of  the  road. 


BOOK  II:  THE  BUSKIN 

•    • 
• 

CHAPTER  I 
THE  TRESPASSERS 

COMING  presently  upon  the  R6don  road,  And  re" -Louis, 
obeying  instinct  rather  than  reason,  turned  his  face  to  the 
south,  and  plodded  wearily  and  mechanically  forward.  He 
had  no  clear  idea  of  whither  he  was  going,  or  of  whither  he 
should  go.  All  that  imported  at  the  moment  was  to  put  as 
great  a  distance  as  possible  between  Gavrillac  and  himself. 

He  had  a  vague,  half-formed  notion  of  returning  to 
Nantes ;  and  there,  by  employing  the  newly  found  weapon 
of  his  oratory,  excite  the  people  into  sheltering  him  as  the 
first  victim  of  the  persecution  he  had  foreseen,  and  against 
which  he  had  sworn  them  to  take  up  arms.  But  the  idea 
was  one  which  he  entertained  merely  as  an  indefinite  possi- 
bility upon  which  he  felt  no  real  impulse  to  act. 

Meanwhile  he  chuckled  at  the  thought  of  Fresnel  as  he 
had  last  seen  him,  with  his  muffled  face  and  glaring  eye- 
balls. "For  one  who  was  anything  but  a  man  of  action," 
he  writes,  "  I  felt  that  I  had  acquitted  myself  none  so  badly." 
It  is  a  phrase  that  recurs  at  intervals  in  his  sketchy  "Con- 
fessions." Constantly  is  he  reminding  you  that  he  is  a 
man  of  mental  and  not  physical  activities,  and  apologizing 
when  dire  necessity  drives  him  into  acts  of  violence.  I  sus- 
pect this  insistence  upon  his  philosophic  detachment  —  for 
which  I  confess  he  had  justification  enough  —  to  betray  his 
besetting  vanity. 

With  increasing  fatigue  came  depression  and  self-criti- 
cism. He  had  stupidly  overshot  his  mark  in  insultingly  de- 
nouncing M.  de  Lesdiguieres.  "It  is  much  better,"  he  says 


88  The  Buskin 


somewhere,  "to  be  wicked  than  to  be  stupid.  Most  of  this 
world's  misery  is  the  fruit  not  as  priests  tell  us  of  wicked- 
ness, but  of  stupidity."  And  we  know  that  of  all  stupidities 
he  considered  anger  the  most  deplorable.  Yet  he  had  per- 
mitted himself  to  be  angry  with  a  creature  like  M.  de 
Lesdiguieres  —  a  lackey,  a  fribble,  a  nothing,  despite  his 
potentialities  for  evil.  He  could  perfectly  have  discharged 
his  self-imposed  mission  without  arousing  the  vindictive 
resentment  of  the  King's  Lieutenant. 

He  beheld  himself  vaguely  launched  upon  life  with  the 
riding-suit  in  which  he  stood,  a  single  louis  d'or  and  a  few 
pieces  of  silver  for  all  capital,  and  a  knowledge  of  law 
which  had  been  inadequate  to  preserve  him  from  the  con- 
sequences of  infringing  it. 

He  had,  in  addition  —  but  these  things  that  were  to  be 
the  real  salvation  of  him  he  did  not  reckon  —  his  gift  of 
laughter,  sadly  repressed  of  late,  and  the  philosophic  out- 
look and  mercurial  temperament  which  are  the  stock-in- 
trade  of  your  adventurer  in  all  ages. 

Meanwhile  he  tramped  mechanically  on  through  the 
night,  until  he  felt  that  he  could  tramp  no  more.  He  had 
skirted  the  little  township  of  Guichen,  and  now  within  a 
half-mile  of  Guignen,  and  with  Gavrillac  a  good  seven  miles 
behind  him,  his  legs  refused  to  carry  him  any  farther. 

He  was  midway  across  the  vast  common  to  the  north  of 
Guignen  when  he  came  to  a  halt.  He  had  left  the  road,  and 
taken  heedlessly  to  the  footpath  that  struck  across  the  waste 
of  indifferent  pasture  interspersed  with  clumps  of  gorse.  A 
stone's  throw  away  on  his  right  the  common  was  bordered 
by  a  thorn  hedge.  Beyond  this  loomed  a  tall  building  which 
he  knew  to  be  an  open  barn,  standing  on  the  edge  of  a  long 
stretch  of  meadowland.  That  dark,  silent  shadow  it  may 
have  been  that  had  brought  him  to  a  standstill,  suggesting 
shelter  to  his  subconsciousness.  A  moment  he  hesitated; 
then  he  struck  across  towards  a  spot  where  a  gap  in  the 
hedge  was  closed  by  a  five-barred  gate.  He  pushed  the  gate 
open,  went  through  the  gap,  and  stood  now  before  the 


The  Trespassers  89 


barn.  It  was  as  big  as  a  house,  yet  consisted  of  no  more  than 
a  roof  carried  upon  half  a  dozen  tall,  brick  pillars.  But 
densely  packed  under  that  roof  was  a  great  stack  of  hay 
that  promised  a  warm  couch  on  so  cold  a  night.  Stout 
timbers  had  been  built  into  the  brick  pillars,  with  project- 
ing ends  to  serve  as  ladders  by  which  the  labourer  might 
climb  to  pack  or  withdraw  hay.  With  what  little  strength 
remained  him,  Andre-Louis  climbed  by  one  of  these  and 
landed  safely  at  the  top,  where  he  was  forced  to  kneel,  for 
lack  of  room  to  stand  upright.  Arrived  there,  he  removed 
his  coat  and  neckcloth,  his  sodden  boots  and  stockings. 
Next  he  cleared  a  trough  for  his  body,  and  lying  down  in  it, 
covered  himself  to  the  neck  with  the  hay  he  had  removed. 
Within  five  minutes  he  was  lost  to  all  worldly  cares  and 
soundly  asleep. 

When  next  he  awakened,  the  sun  was  already  high  in  the 
heavens,  from  which  he  concluded  that  the  morning  was  well 
advanced ;  and  this  before  he  realized  quite  where  he  was  or 
how  he  came  there.  Then  to  his  awakening  senses  came  a 
drone  of  voices  close  at  hand,  to  which  at  first  he  paid  little 
heed.  He  was  deliciously  refreshed,  luxuriously  drowsy  and 
luxuriously  warm. 

But  as  consciousness  and  memory  grew  more  full,  he 
raised  his  head  clear  of  the  hay  that  he  might  free  both  ears 
to  listen,  his  pulses  faintly  quickened  by  the  nascent  fear 
that  those  voices  might  bode  him  no  good.  Then  he  caught 
the  reassuring  accents  of  a  woman,  musical  and  silvery, 
though  laden  with  alarm. 

"Ah,  mon  Dieu,  Leandre,  let  us  separate  at  once.  If  it 
should  be  my  father  ..." 

And  upon  this  a  man's  voice  broke  in,  calm  and  reassur- 
ing: 

"No,  no,  Climene;  you  are  mistaken.  There  is  no  one 
coming.  We  are  quite  safe.  Why  do  you  start  at  shadows?" 

"Ah,  Leandre,  if  he  should  find  us  here  together!  I 
tremble  at  the  very  thought." 

More  was  not  needed  to  reassure  Andre-Louis.  He  had 


9O  The  Buskin 


overheard  enough  to  know  that  this  was  but  the  case  of  a 
pair  of  lovers  who,  with  less  to  fear  of  life,  were  yet  —  after 
the  manner  of  their  kind  —  more  timid  of  heart  than  he. 
Curiosity  drew  him  from  his  warm  trough  to  the  edge  of 
the  hay.  Lying  prone,  he  advanced  his  head  and  peered 
down. 

In  the  space  of  cropped  meadow  between  the  barn  and 
the  hedge  stood  a  man  and  a  woman,  both  young.  The  man 
was  a  well-set-up,  comely  fellow,  with  a  fine  head  of  chest- 
nut hair  tied  in  a  queue  by  a  broad  bow  of  black  satin.  He 
was  dressed  with  certain  tawdry  attempts  at  ostentatious 
embellishments,  which  did  not  prepossess  one  at  first 
glance  in  his  favour.  His  coat  of  a  fashionable  cut  was  of 
faded  plum-coloured  velvet  edged  with  silver  lace,  whose 
glory  had  long  since  departed.  He  affected  ruffles,  but  for 
want  of  starch  they  hung  like  weeping  willows  over  hands 
that  were  fine  and  delicate.  His  breeches  were  of  plain 
black  cloth,  and  his  black  stockings  were  of  cotton  — 
matters  entirely  out  of  harmony  with  his  magnificent  coat. 
His  shoes,  stout  and  serviceable,  were  decked  with  buckles 
of  cheap,  lack-lustre  paste.  But  for  his  engaging  and  in- 
genuous countenance,  Andre-Louis  must  have  set  him  down 
as  a  knight  of  that  order  which  lives  dishonestly  by  its  wits. 
As  it  was,  he  suspended  judgment  whilst  pushing  investiga- 
tion further  by  a  study  of  the  girl.  At  the  outset,  be  it 
confessed  that  it  was  a  study  that  attracted  him  prodi- 
giously. And  this  notwithstanding  the  fact  that,  bookish 
and  studious  as  were  his  ways,  and  in  despite  of  his  years,  it 
was  far  from  his  habit  to  waste  consideration  on  femininity. 

The  child  —  she  was  no  more  than  that,  perhaps  twenty 
at  the  most  —  possessed,  in  addition  to  the  allurements  of 
face  and  shape  that  went  very  near  perfection,  a  sparkling 
vivacity  and  a  grace  of  movement  the  like  of  which  Andr6- 
Louis  did  not  remember  ever  before  to  have  beheld  as- 
sembled in  one  person.  And  her  voice  too  —  that  musical, 
silvery  voice  that  had  awakened  him  —  possessed  in  its 
exquisite  modulations  an  allurement  of  its  own  that  must 


The  Trespassers  91 


have  been  irresistible,  he  thought,  in  the  ugliest  of  her  sex. 
She  wore  a  hooded  mantle  of  green  cloth,  and  the  hood  being 
thrown  back,  her  dainty  head  was  all  revealed  to  him. 
There  were  glints  of  gold  struck  by  the  morning  sun  from 
her  light  nut-brown  hair  that  hung  in  a  cluster  of  curls 
about  her  oval  face.  Her  complexion  was  of  a  delicacy  that 
he  could  compare  only  with  a  rose  petal.  He  could  not  at 
that  distance  discern  the  colour  of  her  eyes,  but  he  guessed 
them  blue,  as  he  admired  the  sparkle  of  them  under  the 
fine,  dark  line  of  eyebrows. 

He  could  not  have  told  you  why,  but  he  was  conscious 
that  it  aggrieved  him  to  find  her  so  intimate  with  this 
pretty  young  fellow,  who  was  partly  clad,  as  it  appeared, 
in  the  cast-offs  of  a  nobleman.  He  could  not  guess  her 
station,  but  the  speech  that  reached  him  was  cultured  in 
tone  and  word.  He  strained  to  listen. 

"I  shall  know  no  peace,  L6andre,  until  we  are  safely 
wedded,"  she  was  saying.  "Not  until  then  shall  I  count 
myself  beyond  his  reach.  And  yet  if  we  marry  without  his 
consent,  we  but  make  trouble  for  ourselves,  and  of  gaining 
his  consent  I  almost  despair." 

Evidently,  thought  Andr£-Louis,  her  father  was  a  man 
of  sense,  who  saw  through  the  shabby  finery  of  M.  L6andre, 
and  was  not  to  be  dazzled  by  cheap  paste  buckles. 

"My  dear  Climene,"  the  young  man  was  answering  her, 
standing  squarely  before  her,  and  holding  both  her  hands, 
"you  are  wrong  to  despond.  If  I  do  not  reveal  to  you  all 
the  stratagem  that  I  have  prepared  to  win  the  consent  of 
your  unnatural  parent,  it  is  because  I  am  loath  to  rob  you 
of  the  pleasure  of  the  surprise  that  is  in  store.  But  place 
your  faith  in  me,  and  in  that  ingenious  friend  of  whom  I 
have  spoken,  and  who  should  be  here  at  any  moment." 

The  stilted  ass!  Had  he  learnt  that  speech  by  heart  in 
advance,  or  was  he  by  nature  a  pedantic  idiot  who  ex- 
pressed himself  in  thisi  set  and  formal  manner?  How  came 
so  sweet  a  blossom  to  waste  her  perfumes  on  such  a  prig? 
And  what  a  ridiculous  name  the  creature  owned ! 


92  The  Buskin 


Thus  Andre-Louis  to  himself  from  his  observatory. 
Meanwhile,  she  was  speaking. 

"That  is  what  my  heart  desires,  Leandre,  but  I  am  beset 
by  fears  lest  your  stratagem  should  be  too  late.  I  am  to 
marry  this  horrible  Marquis  of  Sbrufadelli  this  very  day. 
He  arrives  by  noon.  He  comes  to  sign  the  contract  —  to 
make  me  the  Marchioness  of  Sbrufadelli.  Oh!"  It  was  a 
cry  of  pain  from  that  tender  young  heart.  "The  very  name 
burns  my  lips.  If  it  were  mine  I  could  never  utter  it  — 
never!  The  man  is  so  detestable.  Save  me,  L6andre.  Save 
me!  You  are  my  only  hope." 

Andr6-Louis  was  conscious  of  a  pang  of  disappointment. 
She  failed  to  soar  to  the  heights  he  had  expected  of  her.  She 
was  evidently  infected  by  the  stilted  manner  of  her  ridicu- 
lous lover.  There  was  an  atrocious  lack  of  sincerity  about 
her  words.  They  touched  his  mind,  but  left  his  heart  un- 
moved. Perhaps  this  was  because  of  his  antipathy  to 
M.  L6andre  and  to  the  issue  involved. 

So  her  father  was  marrying  her  to  a  marquis!  That  im- 
plied birth  on  her  side.  And  yet  she  was  content  to  pair  off 
with  this  dull  young  adventurer  in  the  tarnished  lace!  It 
was,  he  supposed,  the  sort  of  thing  to  be  expected  of  a  sex 
that  all  philosophy  had  taught  him  to  regard  as  the  maddest 
part  of  a  mad  species. 

"It  shall  never  be!"  M.  Le"andre  was  storming  passion- 
ately. "Never!  I  swear  it!"  And  he  shook  his  puny  fist  at 
the  blue  vault  of  heaven  —  Ajax  defying  Jupiter.  "Ah,  but 
here  comes  our  subtle  friend  . . ."  (Andr6-Louis  did  not  catch 
the  name,  M .  Leandre  having  at  that  moment  turned  to  face 
the  gap  in  the  hedge.)  "He  will  bring  us  news,  I  know." 

Andr6-Louis  looked  also  in  the  direction  of  the  gap. 
Through  it  emerged  a  lean,  slight  man  in  a  rusty  cloak  and 
a  three-cornered  hat  worn  well  down  over  his  nose  so  as  to 
shade  his  face.  And  when  presently  he  doffed  this  hat  and 
made  a  sweeping  bow  to  the  young  lovers,  Andr6-Louis 
confessed  to  himself  that  had  he  been  cursed  with  such  a 
hangdog  countenance  he  would  have  worn  his  hat  in  pre- 


The  Trespassers  93 


cisely  such  a  manner,  so  as  to  conceal  as  much  of  it  as 
possible.  If  M.  Leandre  appeared  to  be  wearing,  in  part 
at  least,  the  cast-offs  of  a  nobleman,  the  newcomer  appeared 
to  be  wearing  the  cast-offs  of  M.  L6andre.  Yet  despite  his 
vile  clothes  and  viler  face,  with  its  three  days'  growth  of 
beard,  the  fellow  carried  himself  with  a  certain  air;  he  posi- 
tively strutted  as  he  advanced,  and  he  made  a  leg  in  a 
manner  that  was  courtly  and  practised. 

"Monsieur,"  said  he,  with  the  air  of  a  conspirator,  "the 
time  for  action  has  arrived,  and  so  has  the  Marquis.  That 
is  why." 

The  young  lovers  sprang  apart  in  consternation ;  Climene 
with  clasped  hands,  parted  lips,  and  a  bosom  that  raced 
distractingly  under  its  white  fichu-menteur ;  M.  Leandre 
agape,  the  very  picture  of  foolishness  and  dismay. 

Meanwhile  the  newcomer  rattled  on.  "I  was  at  the  inn 
an  hour  ago  when  he  descended  there,  and  I  studied  him 
attentively  whilst  he  was  at  breakfast.  Having  done  so, 
not  a  single  doubt  remains  me  of  our  success.  As  for  what 
he  looks  like,  I  could  entertain  you  at  length  upon  the 
fashion  in  which  nature  has  designed  his  gross  fatuity.  But 
that  is  no  matter.  We  are  concerned  with  what  he  is,  with 
the  wit  of  him.  And  I  tell  you  confidently  that  I  find  him  so 
dull  and  stupid  that  you  may  be  confident  he  will  tumble 
headlong  into  each  and  all  of  the  traps  I  have  so  cunningly 
prepared  for  him." 

"Tell  me,  tell  me!  Speak!"  Climene  implored  him, 
holding  out  her  hands  in  a  supplication  no  man  of  sensibility 
could  have  resisted.  And  then  on  the  instant  she  caught 
her  breath  on  a  faint  scream.  "My  father!"  she  exclaimed, 
turning  distractedly  from  one  to  the  other  of  those  two. 
"He  is  coming!  We  are  lost!" 

"You  must  fly,  Climene!"  said  M.  L6andre. 

"Too  late!  "she  sobbed.   "Too  late!  He  is  here." 

"Calm,  mademoiselle,  calm!"  the  subtle  friend  was 
urging  her.  "Keep  calm  and  trust  to  me.  I  promise  you 
that  all  shall  be  well." 


94  The  Buskin 


"Oh!"  cried  M.  L6andre,  limply.  "Say  what  you  will, 
my  friend,  this  is  ruin  —  the  end  of  all  our  hopes.  Your 
wits  will  never  extricate  us  from  this.  Never!" 

Through  the  gap  strode  now  an  enormous  man  with  an 
inflamed  moon  face  and  a  great  nose,  decently  dressed  after 
the  fashion  of  a  solid  bourgeois.  There  was  no  mistaking 
his  anger,  but  the  expression  that  it  found  was  an  amaze- 
ment to  Andre-Louis. 

"L£andre,  you're  an  imbecile!  Too  much  phlegm,  too 
much  phlegm !  Your  words  would  n't  convince  a  ploughboy ! 
Have  you  considered  what  they  mean  at  all?  Thus,"  he 
cried,  and  casting  his  round  hat  from  him  in  a  broad  gesture, 
he  took  his  stand  at  M.  Leandre's  side,  and  repeated  the 
very  words  that  Leandre  had  lately  uttered,  what  time  the 
three  observed  him  coolly  and  attentively. 

"Oh,  say  what  you  will,  my  friend,  this  is  ruin  —  the  end 
of  all  our  hopes.  Your  wits  will  never  extricate  us  from 
this.  Never!" 

A  frenzy  of  despair  vibrated  in  his  accents.  He  swung 
again  to  face  M.  Leandre.  "Thus,"  he  bade  him  con- 
temptuously. "Let  the  passion  of  your  hopelessness  express 
itself  in  your  voice.  Consider  that  you  are  not  asking 
Scaramouche  here  whether  he  has  put  a  patch  in  your 
breeches.  You  are  a  despairing  lover  expressing  .  .  ." 

He  checked  abruptly,  startled.  Andr6-Louis,  suddenly 
realizing  what  was  afoot,  and  how  duped  he  had  been,  had 
loosed  his  laughter.  The  sound  of  it  pealing  and  booming 
uncannily  under  the  great  roof  that  so  immediately  con- 
fined him  was  startling  to  those  below. 

The  fat  man  was  the  first  to  recover,  and  he  announced  it 
after  his  own  fashion  in  one  of  the  ready  sarcasms  in  which 
he  habitually  dealt. 

"Hark!"  he  cried,  "the  very  gods  laugh  at  you,  L6andre." 
Then  he  addressed  the  roof  of  the  barn  and  its  invisible 
tenant.  "Hi!  You  there!" 

Andr6-Louis  revealed  himself  by  a  further  protrusion  of 
his  tousled  head. 


The  Trespassers  95 


"Good-morning,"  said  he,  pleasantly.  Rising  now  on  his 
knees,  his  horizon  was  suddenly  extended  to  include  the 
broad  common  beyond  the  hedge.  He  beheld  there  an 
enormous  and  very  battered  travelling  chaise,  a  cart  piled 
up  with  timbers  partly  visible  under  the  sheet  of  oiled 
canvas  that  covered  them,  and  a  sort  of  house  on  wheels 
equipped  with  a  tin  chimney,  from  which  the  smoke  was 
slowly  curling.  Three  heavy  Flemish  horses  and  a  couple  of 
donkeys  —  all  of  them  hobbled  —  were  contentedly  crop- 
ping the  grass  in  the  neighbourhood  of  these  vehicles.  These, 
had  he  perceived  them  sooner,  must  have  given  him  the 
clue  to  the  queer  scene  that  had  been  played  under  his  eyes. 
Beyond  the  hedge  other  figures  were  moving.  Three  at  that 
moment  came  crowding  into  the  gap  —  a  saucy,-faced  girl 
with  a  tip-tilted  nose,  whom  he  supposed  to  be  Columbine, 
the  soubrette;  a  lean,  active  youngster,  who  must  be  the 
lackey  Harlequin;  and  another  rather  loutish  youth  who 
might  be  a  zany  or  an  apothecary. 

All  this  he  took  in  at  a  comprehensive  glance  that  con- 
sumed no  more  time  than  it  had  taken  him  to  say  good- 
morning.  To  that  good-morning  Pantaloon  replied  in  a 
bellow  — 

"What  the  devil  are  you  doing  up  there?" 

"  Precisely  the  same  thing  that  you  are  doing  down  there," 
was  the  answer.  "I  am  trespassing." 

"Eh?"  said  Pantaloon,  and  looked  at  his  companions, 
some  of  the  assurance  beaten  out  of  his  big  red  face.  Al- 
though the  thing  was  one  that  they  did  habitually,  to  hear 
it  called  by  its  proper  name  was  disconcerting. 

"Whose  land  is  this?  "heasked,  with  diminishing  assurance. 

Andr6-Louis  answered,  whilst  drawing  on  his  stockings. 
"I  believe  it  to  be  the  property  of  the  Marquis  de  La  Tour 
d'Azyr." 

"That's  a  high-sounding  name.  Is  the  gentleman  severe?" 

"The  gentleman,"  said  Andr£-Louis,  "is  the  devil;  or 
rather,  I  should  prefer  to  say  upon  reflection,  that  the  devil 
is  a  gentleman  by  comparison." 


96  The  Buskin 


"And  yet,"  interposed  the  villainous-looking  fellow  who 
played  Scaramouche,  "by  your  own  confessing  you  don't 
hesitate,  yourself,  to  trespass  upon  his  property." 

"Ah,  but  then,  you  see,  I  am  a  lawyer.  And  lawyers  are 
notoriously  unable  to  observe  the  law,  just  as  actors  are 
notoriously  unable  to  act.  Moreover,  sir,  Nature  imposes 
her  limits  upon  us,  and  Nature  conquers  respect  for  law  as 
she  conquers  all  else.  Nature  conquered  me  last  night  when 
I  had  got  as  far  as  this.  And  so  I  slept  here  without  regard 
for  the  very  high  and  puissant  Marquis  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr. 
At  the  same  time,  M.  Scaramouche,  you'll  observe  that  I 
did  not  flaunt  my  trespass  quite  as  openly  as  you  and  your 
companions." 

Having  donned  his  boots,  Andr£-Louis  came  nimbly  to 
the  ground  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  his  riding-coat  over  his  arm. 
As  he  stood  there  to  don  it,  the  little  cunning  eyes  of  the 
heavy  father  conned  him  in  detail.  Observing  that  his 
clothes,  if  plain,  were  of  a  good  fashion,  that  his  shirt  was 
of  fine  cambric,  and  that  he  expressed  himself  like  a  man  of 
culture,  such  as  he  claimed  to  be,  M.  Pantaloon  was  disposed 
to  be  civil. 

"I  am  very  grateful  to  you  for  the  warning,  sir  ...  "  he 
was  beginning. 

"Act  upon  it,  my  friend.  The  gardes-champetres  of  M. 
d'Azyr  have  orders  to  fire  on  trespassers.  Imitate  me,  and 
decamp." 

They  followed  him  upon  the  instant  through  that  gap  in 
the  hedge  to  the  encampment  on  the  common.  There 
Andr6-Louis  took  his  leave  of  them.  But  as  he  was  turning 
away  he  perceived  a  young  man  of  the  company  performing 
his  morning  toilet  at  a  bucket  placed  upon  one  of  the  wooden 
steps  at  the  tail  of  the  house  on  wheels.  A  moment  he  hesi- 
tated, then  he  turned  frankly  to  M.  Pantaloon,  who  was 
still  at  his  elbow. 

"  If  it  were  not  unconscionable  to  encroach  so  far  upon  your 
hospitality,  monsieur,"  said  he, '  'I  would  beg  leave  to  imitate 
that  very  excellent  young  gentleman  before  I  leave  you," 


The  Trespassers  97 


"But,  my  dear  sir ! "  Good-nature  oozed  out  of  every  pore 
of  the  fat  body  of  the  master  player.  "  It  is  nothing  at  all. 
But,  by  all  means.  Rhodomont  will  provide  what  you  re- 
quire. He  is  the  dandy  of  the  company  in  real  life,  though 
a  fire-eater  on  the  stage.  Hi,  Rhodomont!" 

The  young  ablutionist  straightened  his  long  body  from 
the  right  angle  in  which  it  had  been  bent  over  the  bucket, 
and  looked  out  through  a  foam  of  soapsuds.  Pantaloon 
issued  an  order,  and  Rhodomont,  who  was  indeed  as  gentle 
and  amiable  off  the  stage  as  he  was  formidable  and  terrible 
upon  it,  made  the  stranger  free  of  the  bucket  in  the  friend- 
liest manner. 

So  Andre-Louis  once  more  removed  his  neckcloth  and  his 
coat,  and  rolled  up  the  sleeves  of  his  fine  shirt,  whilst 
Rhodomont  procured  him  soap,  a  towel,  and  presently  a 
broken  comb,  and  even  a  greasy  hair-ribbon,  in  case  the 
gentleman  should  have  lost  his  own.  This  last  Andr£-Louis 
declined,  but  the  comb  he  gratefully  accepted,  and  having 
presently  washed  himself  clean,  stood,  with  the  towel  flung 
over  his  left  shoulder,  restoring  order  to  his  dishevelled 
locks  before  a  broken  piece  of  mirror  affixed  to  the  door  of 
the  travelling  house. 

He  was  standing  thus,  what  time  the  gentle  Rhodomont 
babbled  aimlessly  at  his  side,  when  his  ears  caught  the 
sound  of  hooves.  He  looked  over  his  shoulder  carelessly, 
and  then  stood  frozen,  with  uplifted  comb  and  loosened 
mouth.  Away  across  the  common,  on  the  road  that  bor- 
dered it,  he  beheld  a  party  of  seven  horsemen  in  the  blue 
coats  with  red  facings  of  the  mar6chaussee. 

Not  for  a  moment  did  he  doubt  what  was  the  quarry  of 
this  prowling  gendarmerie.  It  was  as  if  the  chill  shadow 
of  the  gallows  had  fallen  suddenly  upon  him. 

And  then  the  troop  halted,  abreast  with  them,  and  the 
sergeant  leading  it  sent  his  bawling  voice  across  the  common. 

"Hi,  there!  Hi!"  His  tone  rang  with  menace. 

Every  member  of  the  company  —  and  there  were  some 
twelve  in  all  —  stood  at  gaze.  Pantaloon  advanced  a  step 


98  The  Buskin 


or  two,  stalking,  his  head  thrown  back,  his  manner  that  of 
a  King's  Lieutenant. 

"Now,  what  the  devil's  this?"  quoth  he,  but  whether  of 
Fate  or  Heaven  or  the  sergeant,  was  not  clear. 

There  was  a  brief  colloquy  among  the  horsemen,  then 
they  came  trotting  across  the  common  straight  towards  the 
players'  encampment. 

Andr£-Louis  had  remained  standing  at  the  tail  of  the 
travelling  house.  He  was  still  passing  the  comb  through  his 
straggling  hair,  but  mechanically  and  unconsciously.  His 
mind  was  all  intent  upon  the  advancing  troop,  his  wits 
alert  and  gathered  together  for  a  leap  in  whatever  direction 
should  be  indicated. 

Still  in  the  distance,  but  evidently  impatient,  the  sergeant 
bawled  a  question. 

"Who  gave  you  leave  to  encamp  here?'* 

It  was  a  question  that  reassured  Andre-Louis  not  at  all. 
He  was  not  deceived  by  it  into  supposing  or  even  hoping 
that  the  business  of  these  men  was  merely  to  round  up 
vagrants  and  trespassers.  That  was  no  part  of  their  real 
duty;  it  was  something  done  in  passing  —  done,  perhaps,  in 
the  hope  of  levying  a  tax  of  their  own.  It  was  very  long 
odds  that  they  were  from  Rennes,  and  that  their  real  busi- 
ness was  the  hunting  down  of  a  young  lawyer  charged  with 
sedition.  Meanwhile  Pantaloon  was  shouting  back. 

"Who  gave  us  leave,  do  you  say?  What  leave?  This  is 
communal  land,  free  to  all." 

The  sergeant  laughed  unpleasantly,  and  came  on,  his 
troop  following. 

"There  is,"  said  a  voice  at  Pantaloon's  elbow,  "no  such 
thing  as  communal  land  in  the  proper  sense  in  all  M.  de  La 
Tour  d'Azyr's  vast  domain.  This  is  a  terre  censive,  and  his 
bailiffs  collect  his  dues  from  all  who  send  their  beasts  to 
graze  here." 

Pantaloon  turned  to  behold  at  his  side  Andr6-Louis  in  his 
shirt-sleeves,  and  without  a  neckcloth,  the  towel  still  trailing 
over  his  left  shoulder,  a  comb  in  his  hand,  his  hair  half  dressed. 


The  Trespassers  99 


"God  of  God!"  swore  Pantaloon.  "But  it  is  an  ogre, 
this  Marquis  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr!" 

"I  have  told  you  already  what  I  think  of  him,"  said 
Andre-Louis.  "As  for  these  fellows  you  had  better  let  me 
deal  with  them.  I  have  experience  of  their  kind."  And 
without  waiting  for  Pantaloon's  consent,  Andr6-Louis 
stepped  forward  to  meet  the  advancing  men  of  the  mare- 
chaussee.  He  had  realized  that  here  boldness  alone  could 
save  him. 

When  a  moment  later  the  sergeant  pulled  up  his  horse 
alongside  of  this  half -dressed  young  man,  Andre-Louis 
combed  his  hair  what  time  he  looked  up  with  a  half  smile, 
intended  to  be  friendly,  ingenuous,  and  disarming. 

In  spite  of  it  the  sergeant  hailed  him  gruffly:  "Are  you 
the  leader  of  this  troop  of  vagabonds?" 

"Yes  .  .  .  that  is  to  say,  my  father,  there,  is  really  the 
leader."  And  he  jerked  a  thumb  in  the  direction  of  M.  Panta- 
loon, who  stood  at  gaze  out  of  earshot  in  the  background. 
"What  is  your  pleasure,  captain?" 

"My  pleasure  is  to  tell  you  that  you  are  very  likely  to  be 
gaoled  for  this,  all  the  pack  of  you."  His  voice  was  loud 
and  bullying.  It  carried  across  the  common  to  the  ears  of 
every  member  of  the  company,  and  brought  them  all  to 
stricken  attention  where  they  stood.  The  lot  of  strolling 
players  was  hard  enough  without  the  addition  of  gaolings. 

"But  how  so,  my  captain?  This  is  communal  land  — 
free  to  all." 

"It  is  nothing  of  the  kind." 

"Where  are  the  fences?"  quoth  Andre-Louis,  waving  the 
hand  that  held  the  comb,  as  if  to  indicate  the  openness  of 
the  place. 

"Fences!"  snorted  the  sergeant.  "What  have  fences  to 
do  with  the  matter?  This  is  terre  censive.  There  is  no 
grazing  here  save  by  payment  of  dues  to  the  Marquis  de 
La  Tour  d'Azyr." 

"But  we  are  not  grazing,"  quoth  the  innocent  Andre- 
Louis. 


loo  The  Buskin 


"To  the  devil  with  you,  zany!  You  are  not  grazing!  But 
your  beasts  are  grazing!" 

"They  eat  so  little,"  Andr6-Louis  apologized,  and  again 
essayed  his  ingratiating  smile. 

The  sergeant  grew  more  terrible  than  ever.  "That  is  not 
the  point.  The  point  is  that  you  are  committing  what 
amounts  to  a  theft,  and  there's  the  gaol  for  thieves." 

"Technically,  I  suppose  you  are  right,"  sighed  Andr£- 
Louis,  and  fell  to  combing  his  hair  again,  still  looking  up 
into  the  sergeant's  face.  "But  we  have  sinned  in  ignorance. 
We  are  grateful  to  you  for  the  warning."  He  passed  the 
comb  into  his  left  hand,  and  with  his  right  fumbled  in  his 
breeches'  pocket,  whence  there  came  a  faint  jingle  of  coins. 
"We  are  desolated  to  have  brought  you  out  of  your  way. 
Perhaps  for  their  trouble  your  men  would  honour  us  by 
stopping  at  the  next  inn  to  drink  the  health  of  ...  of  ... 
this  M.  de  La  Tour  d'  Azyr,  or  any  other  health  that  they 
think  proper." 

Some  of  the  clouds  lifted  from  the  sergeant's  brow.  But 
not  yet  all. 

"Well,  well,"  said  he,  gruffly.  "But  you  must  decamp, 
you  understand."  He  leaned  from  the  saddle  to  bring  his 
recipient  hand  to  a  convenient  distance.  Andre-Louis 
placed  in  it  a  three-livre  piece. 

"  In  half  an  hour,"   said  Andre-Louis. 

"Why  in  half  an  hour?  Why  not  at  once?  " 

"Oh,  but  time  to  break  our  fast." 

They  looked  at  each  other.  The  sergeant  next  considered 
the  broad  piece  of  silver  in  his  palm.  Then  at  last  his  fea- 
tures relaxed  from  their  sternness. 

"After  all,"  said  he,  "it  is  none  of  our  business  to  play 
the  tipstaves  for  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr.  We  are  of  the 
marechaussee  from  Rennes."  Andre-Louis'  eyelids  played 
him  false  by  flickering.  "But  if  you  linger,  look  out  for  the 
gardes-champe'tres  of  the  Marquis.  You'll  find  them  not 
at  all  accommodating.  Well,  well  —  a  good  appetite  to 
you,  monsieur,"  said  he,  in  valediction. 


The  Trespassers  101 


"A  pleasant  ride,  my  captain,"  answered  Andre-Louis. 

The  sergeant  wheeled  his  horse  about,  his  troop  wheeled 
with  him.  They  were  starting  off,  when  he  reined  up  again. 

"You,  monsieur!"  he  called  over  his  shoulder.  In  a 
bound  Andre-Louis  was  beside  his  stirrup.  "We  are  in 
quest  of  a  scoundrel  named  Andr£-Louis  Moreau,  from 
Gavrillac,  a  fugitive  from  justice  wanted  for  the  gallows 
on  a  matter  of  sedition.  You've  seen  nothing,  I  suppose,  of 
a  man  whose  movements  seemed  to  you  suspicious?" 

"Indeed,  we  have,"  said  Andre-Louis,  very  boldly,  his 
face  eager  with  consciousness  of  the  ability  to  oblige. 

"You  have?"  cried  the  sergeant,  in  a  ringing  voice. 
"Where?  When?" 

"Yesterday  evening  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Guignen  . . ." 

"Yes,  yes,"  the  sergeant  felt  himself  hot  upon  the  trail. 

"There  was  a  fellow  who  seemed  very  fearful  of  being 
recognized  ...  a  man  of  fifty  or  thereabouts  ..." 

"Fifty!"  cried  the  sergeant,  and  his  face  fell.  "Bah! 
This  man  of  ours  is  no  older  than  yourself,  a  thin  wisp  of  a 
fellow  of  about  your  own  height  and  of  black  hair,  just  like 
your  own,  by  the  description.  Keep  a  lookout  on  your 
travels,  master  player.  The  King's  Lieutenant  in  Rennes 
has  sent  us  word  this  morning  that  he  will  pay  ten  louis  to 
any  one  giving  information  that  will  lead  to  this  scoundrel's 
arrest.  So  there's  ten  louis  to  be  earned  by  keeping  your 
eyes  open,  and  sending  word  to  the  nearest  justices.  It 
would  be  a  fine  windfall  for  you,  that." 

"A  fine  windfall,  indeed,  captain,"  answered  Andr6- 
Louis,  laughing. 

But  the  sergeant  had  touched  his  horse  with  the  spur, 
and  was  already  trotting  off  in  the  wake  of  his  men.  Andr£- 
Louis  continued  to  laugh,  quite  silently,  as  he  sometimes 
did  when  the  humour  of  a  jest  was  peculiarly  keen. 

Then  he  turned  slowly  about,  and  came  back  towards 
Pantaloon  and  the  rest  of  the  company,  who  were  now  all 
grouped  together,  at  gaze. 

Pantaloon  advanced  to  meet  him  with  both  hands  out- 


IO2  The  Buskin 


held.  For  a  moment  Andr6-Louis  thought  he  was  about  to 
be  embraced. 

"We  hail  you  our  saviour!"  the  big  man  declaimed. 
"Already  the  shadow  of  the  gaol  was  creeping  over  us, 
chilling  us  to  the  very  marrow.  For  though  we  be  poor,  yet 
are  we  all  honest  folk  and  not  one  of  us  has  ever  suffered 
the  indignity  of  prison.  Nor  is  there  one  of  us  would  sur- 
vive it.  But  for  you,  my  friend,  it  might  have  happened. 
What  magic  did  you  work?  " 

"The  magic  that  is  to  be  worked  in  France  with  a  King's 
portrait.  The  French  are  a  very  loyal  nation,  as  you  will 
have  observed.  They  love  their  King  —  and  his  portrait 
even  better  than  himself,  especially  when  it  is  wrought  in 
gold.  But  even  in  silver  it  is  respected.  The  sergeant  was  so 
overcome  by  the  sight  of  that  noble  visage  —  on  a  three- 
livre  piece  —  that  his  anger  vanished,  and  he  has  gone  his 
ways  leaving  us  to  depart  in  peace." 

"Ah,  true!  He  said  we  must  decamp.  About  it,  my  lads! 
Come,  come  ..." 

"But  not  until  after  breakfast,"  said  Andr6-Louis.  "A 
half-hour  for  breakfast  was  conceded  us  by  that  loyal 
fellow,  so  deeply  was  he  touched.  True,  he  spoke  of  possible 
gardes-champ6tres.  But  he  knows  as  well  as  I  do  that  they 
are  not  seriously  to  be  feared,  and  that  if  they  came,  again 
the  King's  portrait  —  wrought  in  copper  this  time  —  would 
produce  the  same  melting  effect  upon  them.  So,  my  dear 
M.  Pantaloon,  break  your  fast  at  your  ease.  I  can  smell 
your  cooking  from  here,  and  from  the  smell  I  argue  that 
there  is  no  need  to  wish  you  a  good  appetite." 

"My  friend,  my  saviour!"  Pantaloon  flung  a  great  arm 
about  the  young  man's  shoulders.  "You  shall  stay  to 
breakfast  with  us." 

"  I  confess  to  a  hope  that  you  would  ask  me,"  said  Andr6- 
Louis. 


CHAPTER  II 
THE  SERVICE  OF  THESPIS 

THEY  were,  thought  Andre-Louis,  as  he  sat  down  to  break- 
fast with  them  behind  the  itinerant  house,  in  the  bright 
sunshine  that  tempered  the  cold  breath  of  that  November 
morning,  an  odd  and  yet  an  attractive  crew.  An  air  of 
gaiety  pervaded  them.  They  affected  to  have  no  cares,  and 
made  merry  over  the  trials  and  tribulations  of  their  nomadic 
life.  They  were  curiously,  yet  amiably,  artificial;  histrionic 
in  their  manner  of  discharging  the  most  commonplace  of 
functions;  exaggerated  in  their  gestures;  stilted  and  af- 
fected in  their  speech.  They  'seemed,  indeed,  to  belong  to 
a  world  apart,  a  world  of  unreality  which  became  real  only 
on  the  planks  of  their  stage,  in  the  glare  of  their  footlights. 
Good-fellowship  bound  them  one  to  another;  and  Andr6- 
Louis  reflected  cynically  that  this  harmony  amongst  them 
might  be  the  cause  of  their  apparent  unreality.  In  the  real 
world,  greedy  striving  and  the  emulation  of  acquisitiveness 
preclude  such  amity  as  was  present  here. 

They  numbered  exactly  eleven,  three  women  and  eight 
men;  and;, they  addressed  each  other  by  their  stage 
names :  names  which  denoted  their  several  types,  and 
never  —  or  only  very  slightly  —  varied,  no  matter  what 
might  be  the  play  that  they  performed. 

"We  are,"  Pantaloon  informed  him,  "one  of  those  few 
remaining  staunch  bands  of  real  players,  who  uphold  the 
traditions  of  the  old  Italian  Commedia  dell'  Arte.  Not  for 
us  to  vex  our  memories  and  stultify  our  wit  with  the  stilted 
phrases  that  are  the  fruit  of  a  wretched  author's  lucubra- 
tions. Each  of  us  is  in  detail  his  own  author  in  a  measure 
as  he  develops  the  part  assigned  to  him.  We  are  improvisers 
—  improvisers  of  the  old  and  noble  Italian  school." 


104  The  Buskin 


"I  had  guessed  as  much,"  said  Andre-Louis,  "when  I  dis- 
covered you  rehearsing  your  improvisations." 

Pantaloon  frowned. 

"I  have  observed,  young  sir,  that  your  humour  inclines 
to  the  pungent,  not  to  say  the  acrid.  It  is  very  well.  It  is, 
I  suppose,  the  humour  that  should  go  with  such  a  counte- 
nance. But  it  may  lead  you  astray,  as  in  this  instance.  That 
rehearsal  —  a  most  unusual  thing  with  us  —  was  necessi- 
tated by  the  histrionic  rawness  of  our  L6andre.  We  are 
seeking  to  inculcate  into  him  by  training  an  art  with  which 
Nature  neglected  to  endow  him  against  his  present  needs. 
Should  he  continue  to  fail  in  doing  justice  to  our  schooling 
.  .  .  But  we  will  not  disturb  our  present  harmony  with  the 
unpleasant  anticipation  of  misfortunes  which  we  still  hope 
to  avert.  We  love  our  L£andre,  for  all  his  faults.  Let  me 
make  you  acquainted  with  our  company." 

And  he  proceeded  to  introduction  in  detail.  He  pointed 
out  the  long  and  amiable  Rhodomont,  whom  Andr6-Louis 
already  knew. 

"His  length  of  limb  and  hooked  nose  were  his  superficial 
qualifications  to  play  roaring  captains,"  Pantaloon  ex- 
plained. "His  lungs  have  justified  our  choice.  You  should 
hear  him  roar.  At  first  we  called  him  Spavento  or  £pou- 
vante.  But  that  was  unworthy  of  so  great  an  artist.  Not 
since  the  superb  Mondor  amazed  the  world  has  so  thrason- 
ical a  bully  been  seen  upon  the  stage.  So  we  conferred  upon 
him  the  name  of  Rhodomont  that  Mondor  made  famous; 
and  I  give  you  my  word,  as  an  actor  and  a  gentleman  — 
for  I  am  a  gentleman,  monsieur,  or  was  —  that  he  has 
justified  us." 

His  little  eyes  beamed  in  his  great  swollen  face  as  he 
turned  their  gaze  upon  the  object  of  his  encomium.  The  ter- 
rible Rhodomont,  confused  by  so  much  praise,  blushed  like 
a  schoolgirl  as  he  met  the  solemn  scrutiny  of  Andr6-Louis. 

"Then  here  we  have  Scaramouche,  whom  also  you  al- 
ready know.  Sometimes  he  is  Scapin  and  sometimes  Covi- 
ello,  but  in  the  main  Scaramouche,  to  which  let  me  tell  you 


The  Service  of  Thespis  105 

he  is  best  suited  —  sometimes  too  well  suited,  I  think.  For 
he  is  Scaramouche  not  only  on  the  stage,  but  also  in  the 
world.  He  has  a  gift  of  sly  intrigue,  an  art  of  setting  folk 
by  the  ears,  combined  with  an  impudent  aggressiveness 
upon  occasion  when  he  considers  himself  safe  from  re- 
prisals. He  is  Scaramouche,  the  little  skirmisher,  to  the 
very  life.  I  could  say  more.  But  I  am  by  disposition  char- 
itable and  loving  to  all  mankind." 

"As  the  priest  said  when  he  kissed  the  serving-wench," 
snarled  Scaramouche,  and  went  on  eating. 

"His  humour,  like  your  own,  you  will  observe,  is  acrid," 
said  Pantaloon.  He  passed  on.  "Then  that  rascal  with  the 
lumpy  nose  and  the  grinning  bucolic  countenance  is,  of  course, 
Pierrot.  Could  he  be  aught  else?  " 

"  I  could  play  lovers  a  deal  better,"  said  the  rustic  cherub. 

"That  is  the  delusion  proper  to  Pierrot,"  said  Pantaloon, 
contemptuously.  "This  heavy,  beetle-browed  ruffian,  who 
has  grown  old  in  sin,  and  whose  appetite  increases  with  his 
years,  is  Polichinelle.  Each  one,  as  you  perceive,  is  de- 
signed by  Nature  for  the  part  he  plays.  This  nimble, 
freckled  jackanapes  is  Harlequin;  not  your  spangled  Harle- 
quin into  which  modern  degeneracy  has  debased  that  first- 
born of  Momus,  but  the  genuine  original  zany  of  the 
Commedia,  ragged  and  patched,  an  impudent,  cowardly, 
blackguardly  clown." 

"Each  one  of  us,  as  you  perceive,"  said  Harlequin, 
mimicking  the  leader  of  the  troupe,  "is  designed  by  Nature 
for  the  part  he  plays." 

"Physically,  my  friend,  physically  only,  else  we  should 
not  have  so  much  trouble  in  teaching  this  beautiful  Leandre 
to  become  a  lover.  Then  we  have  Pasquariel  here,  who  is 
sometimes  an  apothecary,  sometimes  a  notary,  sometimes 
a  lackey  —  an  amiable,  accommodating  fellow.  He  is  also 
an  excellent  cook,  being  a  child  of  Italy,  that  land  of  glut* 
tons.  And  finally,  you  have  myself,  who  as  the  father  of  the 
company  very  properly  play  as  Pantaloon  the  r61es  of 
father.  Sometimes,  it  is  true,  I  am  a  deluded  husband,  and 


io6  The  Buskin 


sometimes  an  ignorant,  self-sufficient  doctor.  But  it  is 
rarely  that  I  find  it  necessary  to  call  myself  other  than 
Pantaloon.  For  the  rest,  I  am  the  only  one  who  has  a 
name  —  a  real  name.  It  is  Binet,  monsieur. 

"And  now  for  the  ladies.  First  in  order  of  seniority  we 
have  Madame  there."  He  waved  one  of  his  great  hands 
towards  a  buxom,  smiling  blonde  of  five-and-forty,  who 
was  seated  on  the  lowest  of  the  steps  of  the  travelling  house. 
"She  is  our  Duegne,  or  Mother,  or  Nurse,  as  the  case  re- 
quires. She  is  known  quite  simply  and  royally  as  Madame. 
If  she  ever  had  a  name  in  the  world,  she  has  long  since  for- 
gotten it,  which  is  perhaps  as  well.  Then  we  have  this 
pert  jade  with  the  tip-tilted  nose  and  the  wide  mouth,  who 
is  of  course  our  soubrette  Columbine,  and  lastly,  my  daugh- 
ter Climene,  an  amoureuse  of  talents  not  to  be  matched 
outside  the  Com6die  Frangaise,  of  which  she  has  the  bad 
taste  to  aspire  to  become  a  member." 

The  lovely  Climene  —  and  lovely  indeed  she  was  — 
tossed  her  nut-brown  curls  and  laughed  as  she  looked  across 
at  Andr£-Louis.  Her  eyes,  he  had  perceived  by  now,  were 
not  blue,  but  hazel. 

"Do  not  believe  him,  monsieur.  Here  I  am  queen,  and 
I  prefer  to  be  queen  here  rather  than  a  slave  in  Paris." 

"Mademoiselle,"  said  Andre-Louis,  quite  solemnly, 
"will  be  queen  wherever  she  condescends  to  reign." 

Her  only  answer  was  a  timid  —  timid  and  yet  alluring  — 
glance  from  under  fluttering  lids.  Meanwhile  her  father 
was  bawling  at  the  comely  young  man  who  played  lovers  — 

"You  hear,  Leandre!  That  is  the  sort  of  speech  you 
should  practise." 

L6andre  raised  languid  eyebrows.  "That?"  quoth  he, 
and  shrugged.  "The  merest  commonplace." 

Andr£-Louis  laughed  approval.  "M.  L6andre  is  of  a 
readier  wit  than  you  concede.  There  is  subtlety  in  pro- 
nouncing it  a  commonplace  to  call  Mile.  Climene  a  queen." 

Some  laughed,  M.  Binet  amongst  them,  with  good- 
humoured  mockery. 


The  Service  of  Thespis  107 

"You  think  he  has  the  wit  to  mean  it  thus?  Bah!  His 
subtleties  are  all  unconscious." 

The  conversation  becoming  general,  Andre-Louis  soon 
learnt  what  yet  there  was  to  learn  of  this  strolling  band. 
They  were  on  their  way  to  Guichen,  where  they  hoped  to 
prosper  at  the  fair  that  was  to  open  on  Monday  next.  They 
would  make  their  triumphal  entry  into  the  town  at  noon, 
and  setting  up  their  stage  in  the  old  market,  they  would 
give  their  first  performance  that  same  Saturday  night,  in 
a  new  canevas  —  or  scenario  —  of  M.  Binet's  own,  which 
should  set  the  rustics  gaping.  And  then  M.  Binet  fetched 
a  sigh,  and  addressed  himself  to  the  elderly,  swarthy,  beetle- 
browed  Polichinelle,  who  sat  on  his  left. 

"But  we  shall  miss  Felicien,"  said  he.  "Indeed,  I  do  not 
know  what  we  shall  do  without  him." 

"Oh,  we  shall  contrive,"  said  Polichinelle,  with  his 
mouth  full. 

"  So  you  always  say,  whatever  happens,  knowing  that  in 
any  case  the  contriving  will  not  fall  upon  yourself." 

"He  should  not  be  difficult  to  replace,"  said  Harlequin. 

"True,  if  we  were  in  a  civilized  land.  But  where  among 
the  rustics  of  Brittany  are  we  to  find  a  fellow  of  even  his 
poor  parts?"  M.  Binet  turned  to  Andre-Louis.  "He  was 
our  property-man,  our  machinist,  our  stage-carpenter,  our 
man  of  affairs,  and  occasionally  he  acted." 

"The  part  of  Figaro,  I  presume,"  said  Andre-Louis, 
which  elicited  a  laugh. 

"So  you  are  acquainted  with  Beaumarchais ! "  Binet 
eyed  the  young  man  with  fresh  interest. 

"He  is  tolerably  well  known,  I  think." 

"  In  Paris,  to  be  sure.  But  I  had  not  dreamt  his  fame  had 
reached  the  wilds  of  Brittany." 

"But  then  I  was  some  years  in  Paris  —  at  the  Lyc6e  of 
Louis  le  Grand.  It  was  there  I  made  acquaintance  with 
his  work." 

"A  dangerous  man,"  said  Polichinelle,  sententiously. 

"  Indeed,  and  you  are  right,"  Pantaloon  agreed.   "Clever 


io8  The  Buskin 


—  I  do  not  deny  him  that,  although  myself  I  find  little  use 
for  authors.  But  of  a  sinister  cleverness  responsible  for  the 
dissemination  of  many  of  these  subversive  new  ideas.  I 
think  such  writers  should  be  suppressed." 

"M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr  would  probably  agree  with  you  — 
the  gentleman  who  by  the  simple  exertion  of  his  will  turns 
this  communal  land  into  his  own  property."  And  Andr6- 
Louis  drained  his  cup,  which  had  been  filled  with  the  poor 
vin  gris  that  was  the  players'  drink. 

It  was  a  remark  that  might  have  precipitated  an  argu- 
ment had  it  not  also  reminded  M.  Binet  of  the  terms  on 
which  they  were  encamped  there,  and  of  the  fact  that  the 
half -hour  was  more  than  past.  In  a  moment  he  was  on  his 
feet,  leaping  up  with  an  agility  surprising  in  so  corpulent 
a  man,  issuing  his  commands  like  a  marshal  on  a  field  of 
battle. 

"Come,  come,  my  lads!  Are  we  to  sit  guzzling  here  all 
day?  Time  flees,  and  there's  a  deal  to  be  done  if  we  are  to 
make  our  entry  into  Guichen  at  noon.  Go,  get  you  dressed. 
We  strike  camp  in  twenty  minutes.  Bestir,  ladies!  To  your 
chaise,  and  see  that  you  contrive  to  look  your  best.  Soon 
the  eyes  of  Guichen  will  be  upon  you,  and  the  condition  of 
your  interior  to-morrow  will  depend  upon  the  impression 
made  by  your  exterior  to-day.  Away!  Away!" 

The  implicit  obedience  this  autocrat  commanded  set 
them  in  a  whirl.  Baskets  and  boxes  were  dragged  forth  to 
receive  the  platters  and  remains  of  their  meagre  feast.  In 
an  instant  the  ground  was  cleared,  and  the  three  ladies  had 
taken  their  departure  to  the  chaise,  which  was  set  apart  for 
their  use.  The  men  were  already  climbing  into  the  house 
on  wheels,  when  Binet  turned  to  Andr£-Louis. 

"We  part  here,  sir,"  said  he,  dramatically,  "the  richer 
by  your  acquaintance;  your  debtors  and  your  friends."  He 
put  forth  his  podgy  hand. 

Slowly  Andr6-Louis  took  it  in  his  own.  He  had  been 
thinking  swiftly  in  the  last  few  moments.  And  remembering 
the  safety  he  had  found  from  his  pursuers  in  the  bosom  of 


The  Service  of  Thespis  log 

this  company,  it  occurred  to  him  that  nowhere  could  he  be 
better  hidden  for  the  present,  until  the  quest  for  him  should 
have  died  down. 

"Sir,"  he  said,  "the  indebtedness  is  on  my  side.  It  is  not 
every  day  one  has  the  felicity  to  sit  down  with  so  illustrious 
and  engaging  a  company." 

Binet's  little  eyes  peered  suspiciously  at  the  young  man, 
in  quest  of  irony.  He  found  nothing  but  candour  and  simple 
good  faith. 

"I  part  from  you  reluctantly,"  Andr6-Louis  continued. 
"The  more  reluctantly  since  I  do  not  perceive  the  absolute 
necessity  for  parting." 

"How?"  quoth  Binet,  frowning,  and  slowly  withdrawing 
the  hand  which  the  other  had  already  retained  rather  longer 
than  was  necessary. 

"Thus,"  Andre-Louis  explained  himself.  "You  may  set 
me  down  as  a  sort  of  knight  of  rueful  countenance  in  quest 
of  adventure,  with  no  fixed  purpose  in  life  at  present.  You 
will  not  marvel  that  what  I  have  seen  of  yourself  and  your 
distinguished  troupe  should  inspire  me  to  desire  your  better 
acquaintance.  On  your  side  you  tell  me  that  you  are  in 
need  of  some  one  to  replace  your  Figaro  —  your  Felicien,  I 
think  you  called  him.  Whilst  it  may  be  presumptuous  of 
me  to  hope  that  I  could  discharge  an  office  so  varied  and  so 
onerous  ..." 

"You  are  indulging  that  acrid  humour  of  yours  again, 
my  friend,"  Binet  interrupted  him.  "Excepting  for  that," 
he  added,  slowly,  meditatively,  his  little  eyes  screwed 
up,  "we  might  discuss  this  proposal  that  you  seem  to  be 
making." 

"Alas!  we  can  except  nothing.  If  you  take  me,  you  take 
me  as  I  am.  What  else  is  possible?  As  for  this  humour  — 
such  as  it  is  —  which  you  decry,  you  might  turn  it  to  profit- 
able account." 

"How  so?" 

"  In  several  ways.  I  might,  for  instance,  teach  Leandre  to 
make  love." 


no  The  Buskin 


Pantaloon  burst  into  laughter.  "You  do  not  lack  con- 
fidence in  your  powers.  Modesty  does  not  afflict  you." 

"Therefore  I  evince  the  first  quality  necessary  in  an 
actor." 

"Can  you  act?" 

"Upon  occasion,  I  think,"  said  Andr6-Louis,  his  thoughts 
upon  his  performance  at  Rennes  and  Nantes,  and  wonder- 
ing when  in  all  his  histrionic  career  Pantaloon's  improvisa- 
tions had  so  rent  the  heart  of  mobs. 

M.  Binet  was  musing.  "Do  you  know  much  of  the 
theatre?  "  quoth  he. 

"Everything,"  said  Andr6-Louis. 

"I  said  that  modesty  will  prove  no  obstacle  in  your 
career." 

"But  consider.  I  know  the  work  of  Beaumarchais, 
Eglantine,  Mercier,  Chenier,  and  many  others  of  our  con- 
temporaries. Then  I  have  read,  of  course,  Moliere,  Racine, 
Corneille,  besides  many  other  lesser  French  writers.  Of 
foreign  authors,  I  am  intimate  with  the  works  of  Gozzi, 
Goldoni,  Guarini,  Bibbiena,  Machiavelli,  Secchi,  Tasso, 
Ariosto,  and  Fedini.  Whilst  of  those  of  antiquity  I  know 
most  of  the  work  of  Euripides,  Aristophanes,  Terence, 
Plautus  ..." 

"Enough!"  roared  Pantaloon. 

"I  am  not  nearly  through  with  my  list,"  said  Andr6- 
Louis. 

"You  may  keep  the  rest  for  another  day.  In  Heaven's 
name,  what  can  have  induced  you  to  read  so  many  dramatic 
authors?" 

"In  my  humble  way  I  am  a  student  of  man,  and  some 
years  ago  I  made  the  discovery  that  he  is  most  intimately  to 
be  studied  in  the  reflections  of  him  provided  for  the  theatre." 

"That  is  a  very  original  and  profound  discovery,"  said 
Pantaloon,  quite  seriously.  "It  had  never  occurred  to  me. 
Yet  is  it  true.  Sir,  it  is  a  truth  that  dignifies  our  art.  You 
are  a  man  of  parts,  that  is  clear  to  me.  It  has  been  clear 
since  first  I  met  you.  I  can  read  a  man.  I  knew  you  from 


The  Service  of  Thespis  1 1 1 

the  moment  that  you  said  'good-morning.'  Tell  me,  now: 
Do  you  think  you  could  assist  me  upon  occasion  in  the 
preparation  of  a  scenario?  My  mind,  fully  engaged  as  it  is 
with  a  thousand  details  of  organization,  is  not  always  as 
clear  as  I  would  have  it  for  such  work.  Could  you  assist 
me  there,  do  you  think?" 

"I  am  quite  sure  I  could." 

"Hum,  yes.  I  was  sure  you  would  be.  The  other  duties 
that  were  F61icien's  you  would  soon  learn.  Well,  well,  if 
you  are  willing,  you  may  come  along  with  us.  You  'd  want 
some  salary,  I  suppose?" 

"If  it  is  usual,"  said  Andr6-Louis. 

"What  should  you  say  to  ten  livres  a  month?" 

"I  should  say  that  it  is  n't  exactly  the  riches  of  Peru." 

"I  might  go  as  far  as  fifteen,"  said  Binet,  reluctantly. 
"But  times  are  bad." 

"I'll  make  them  better  for  you." 

"  I  Ve  no  doubt  you  believe  it.  Then  we  understand  each 
other?" 

"Perfectly,"  said  Andr6-Louis,  dryly,  and  was  thus  com- 
mitted to  the  service  of  Thespis. 


CHAPTER  III 
THE  COMIC  MUSE 

THE  company's  entrance  into  the  township  of  Guichen,  if 
not  exactly  triumphal,  as  Binet  had  expressed  the  desire 
that  it  should  be,  was  at  least  sufficiently  startling  and 
cacophonous  to  set  the  rustics  gaping.  To  them  these 
fantastic  creatures  appeared  —  as  indeed  they  were  —  be- 
ings from  another  world. 

First  went  the  great  travelling  chaise,  creaking  and 
groaning  on  its  way,  drawn  by  two  of  the  Flemish  horses. 
It  was  Pantaloon  who  drove  it,  an  obese  and  massive  Panta^ 
loon  in  a  tight-fitting  suit  of  scarlet  under  a  long  brown  bed- 
gown, his  countenance  adorned  by  a  colossal  cardboard 
nose.  Beside  him  on  the  box  sat  Pierrot  in  a  white  smock, 
with  sleeves  that  completely  covered  his  hands,  loose  white 
trousers,  and  a  black  skull-cap.  He  had  whitened  his  face 
with  flour,  and  he  made  hideous  noises  with  a  trumpet. 

On  the  roof  of  the  coach  were  assembled  Polichinelle, 
Scaramouche,  Harlequin,  and  Pasquariel.  Polichinelle  in 
black  arid  white,  his  doublet  cut  in  the  fashion  of  a  century 
ago,  with  humps  before  and  behind,  a  white  frill  round  his 
neck  and  a  black  mask  upon  the  upper  half  of  his  face, 
stood  in  the  middle,  his  feet  planted  wide  to  steady  him, 
solemnly  and  viciously  banging  a  big  drum.  The  other 
three  were  seated  each  at  one  of  the  corners  of  the  roof, 
their  legs  dangling  over.  Scaramouche,  all  in  black  in  the 
Spanish  fashion  of  the  seventeenth  century,  his  face  adorned 
with  a  pair  of  mostachios,  jangled  a  guitar  discordantly. 
Harlequin,  ragged  and  patched  in  every  colour  of  the  rain- 
bow, with  his  leather  girdle  and  sword  of  lath,  the  upper 
half  of  his  face  smeared  in  soot,  clashed  a  pair  of  cymbals 
intermittently.  Pasquariel,  as  an  apothecary  in  skull-cap 
and  white  apron,  excited  the  hilarity  of  the  onlookers  by 


The  Comic  Muse  113 


his  enormous  tin  clyster,  which  emitted  when  pumped  a 
dolorous  squeak. 

Within  the  chaise  itself,  but  showing  themselves  freely 
at  the  windows,  and  exchanging  quips  with  the  townsfolk, 
sat  the  three  ladies  of  the  company.  Climene,  the  amou- 
reuse,  beautifully  gowned  in  flowered  satin,  her  own  cluster- 
ing ringlets  concealed  under  a  pumpkin-shaped  wig,  looked 
so  much  the  lady  of  fashion  that  you  might  have  wondered 
what  she  was  doing  in  that  fantastic  rabble.  Madame,  as  the 
mother,  was  also  dressed  with  splendour,  but  exaggerated  to 
achieve  the  ridiculous.  Her  headdress  was  a  monstrous 
structure  adorned  with  flowers,  and  superimposed  by  little 
ostrich  plumes.  Columbine  sat  facing  them,  her  back  to 
the  horses,  falsely  demure,  in  milkmaid  bonnet  of  white 
muslin,  and  a  striped  gown  of  green  and  blue. 

The  marvel  was  that  the  old  chaise,  which  in  its  halcyon 
days  may  have  served  to  carry  some  dignitary  of  the 
Church,  did  not  founder  instead  of  merely  groaning  under 
that  excessive  and  ribald  load. 

Next  came  the  house  on  wheels,  led  by  the  long,  lean 
Rhodomont,  who  had  daubed  his  face  red,  and  increased 
the  terror  of  it  by  a  pair  of  formidable  mostachios.  He  was 
in  long  thigh-boots  and  leather  jerkin,  trailing  an  enormous 
sword  from  a  crimson  baldrick.  He  wore  a  broad  felt  hat 
with  a  draggled  feather,  and  as  he  advanced  he  raised  his 
great  voice  and  roared  out  defiance,  and  threats  of  blood- 
curdling butchery  to  be  performed  upon  all  and  sundry. 
On  the  roof  of  this  vehicle  sat  L6andre  alone.  He  was 
in  blue  satin,  with  ruffles,  small  sword,  powdered  hair, 
patches  and  spy-glass,  and  red-heeled  shoes:  the  complete 
courtier,  looking  very  handsome.  The  women  of  Guichen 
ogled  him  coquettishly.  He  took  the  ogling  as  a  proper 
tribute  to  his  personal  endowments,  and  returned  it  with 
interest.  Like  Climene,  he  looked  out  of  place  amid  the 
bandits  who  composed  the  remainder  of  the  company. 

Bringing  up  the  rear  came  Andre-Louis  leading  the  two 
donkeys  that  dragged  the  property-cart.  He  had  insisted 


H4  The  Buskin 


upon  assuming  a  false  nose,  representing  as  for  embellish- 
ment that  which  he  intended  for  disguise.  For  the  rest,  he 
had  retained  his  own  garments.  No  one  paid  any  attention 
to  him  as  he  trudged  along  beside  his  donkeys,  an  insignifi- 
cant rear  guard,  which  he  was  well  content  to  be. 

They  made  the  tour  of  the  town,  in  which  the  activity 
was  already  above  the  normal  in  preparation  for  next 
week's  fair.  At  intervals  they  halted,  the  cacophony  would 
cease  abruptly,  and  Polichinelle  would  announce  in  a  sten- 
torian voice  that  at  five  o'clock  that  evening  in  the  old 
market,  M.  Binet's  famous  company  of  improvisers  would 
perform  a  new  comedy  in  four  acts  entitled,  "The  Heartless 
Father.'" 

Thus  at  last  they  came  to  the  old  market,  which  was  the 
groundfloor  of  the  town  hall,  and  open  to  the  four  winds 
by  two  archways  on  each  side  of  its  length,  and  one  archway 
on  each  side  of  its  breadth.  These  archways,  with  two  ex- 
ceptions, had  been  boarded  up.  Through  those  two,  which 
gave  admission  to  what  presently  would  be  the  theatre,  the 
ragamuffins  of  the  town,  and  the  niggards  who  were  reluc- 
tant to  spend  the  necessary  sous  to  obtain  proper  admission, 
might  catch  furtive  glimpses  of  the  performance. 

That  afternoon  was  the  most  strenuous  of  Andr6-Louis* 
life,  unaccustomed  as  he  was  to  any  sort  of  manual  labour. 
It  was  spent  in  erecting  and  preparing  the  stage  at  one  end 
of  the  market-hall ;  and  he  began  to  realize  how  hard-earned 
were  to  be  his  monthly  fifteen  livres.  At  first  there  were 
four  of  them  to  the  task  —  or  really  three,  for  Pantaloon 
did  no  more  than  bawl  directions.  Stripped  of  their  finery, 
Rhodomont  and  Leandre  assisted  Andre-Louis  in  that 
carpentering.  Meanwhile  the  other  four  were  at  dinner  with 
the  ladies.  When  a  half -hour  or  so  later  they  came  to  carry 
on  the  work,  Andr£-Louis  and  his  companions  went  to  dine 
in  their  turn,  leaving  Polichinelle  to  direct  the  operations  as 
well  as  assist  in  them. 

They  crossed  the  square  to  the  cheap  little  inn  where 
they  had  taken  up  their  quarters.  In  the  narrow  passage 


The  Comic  Muse  115 


Andr6-Louis  came  face  to  face  with  Climene,  her  fine 
feathers  cast,  and  restored  by  now  to  her  normal  appearance. 

"And  how  do  you  like  it?"  she  asked  him,  pertly. 

He  looked  her  in  the  eyes.  "It  has  its  compensations," 
quoth  he,  in  that  curious  cold  tone  of  his  that  left  one  wonder- 
ing whether  he  meant  or  not  what  he  seemed  to  mean. 

She  knit  her  brows.  "You  .  .  .  you  feel  the  need  of  com- 
pensations already?" 

"Faith,  I  felt  it  from  the  beginning,"  said  he.  "It  was 
the  perception  of  them  allured  me." 

They  were  quite  alone,  the  others  having  gone  on  into  the 
room  set  apart  for  them,  where  food  was  spread.  Andr6- 
Louis,  who  was  as  unlearned  in  Woman  as  he  was  learned 
in  Man,  was  not  to  know,  upon  feeling  himself  suddenly 
extraordinarily  aware  of  her  femininity,  that  it  was  she  who 
in  some  subtle,  imperceptible  manner  so  rendered  him. 

"What,"  she  asked  him,  with  demurest  innocence,  "are 
these  compensations?" 

He  caught  himself  upon  the  brink  of  the  abyss. 

"Fifteen  livres  a  month,"  said  he,  abruptly. 

A  moment  she  stared  at  him  bewildered.  He  was  very 
disconcerting.  Then  she  recovered. 

"Oh,  and  bed  and  board,"  said  she.  "Don't  be  leaving 
that  from  the  reckoning,  as  you  seem  to  be  doing;  for  your 
dinner  will  be  going  cold.  Are  n't  you  coming?" 

"Have  n't  you  dined?"  he  cried,  and  she  wondered  had 
she  caught  a  note  of  eagerness. 

"No,"  she  answered,  over  her  shoulder.   "I  waited." 

"What  for?"  quoth  his  innocence,  hopefully. 

"I  had  to  change,  of  course,  zany,"  she  answered,  rudely. 
Having  dragged  him,  as  she  imagined,  to  the  chopping- 
block,  she  could  not  refrain  from  chopping.  But  then  he 
was  of  those  who  must  be  chopping  back. 

"And  you  left  your  manners  upstairs  with  your  grand- 
lady  clothes,  mademoiselle.  I  understand." 

A  scarlet  flame  suffused  her  face.  "You  are  very  inso- 
lent," she  said,  lamely. 


n6  The  Buskin 


"I've  often  been  told  so.  But  I  don't  believe  it."  He 
thrust  open  the  door  for  her,  and  bowing  with  an  air  which 
imposed  upon  her,  although  it  was  merely  copied  from 
Fleury  of  the  Comedie  Franchise,  so  often  visited  in  the 
Louis  le  Grand  days,  he  waved  her  in.  "After  you,  ma  de- 
moiselle." For  greater  emphasis  he  deliberately  broke  the 
word  into  its  two  component  parts. 

"I  thank  you,  monsieur,"  she  answered,  frostily,  as  near 
sneering  as  was  possible  to  so  charming  a  person,  and  went 
in,  nor  addressed  him  again  throughout  the  meal.  Instead, 
she  devoted  herself  with  an  unusual  and  devastating  as- 
siduity to  the  suspiring  Leandre,  that  poor  devil  who  could 
not  successfully  play  the  lover  with  her  on  the  stage  because 
of  his  longing  to  play  it  in  reality. 

Andre-Louis  ate  his  herrings  and  black  bread  with  a 
good  appetite  nevertheless.  It  was  poor  fare,  but  then  poor 
fare  was  the  common  lot  of  poor  people  in  that  winter  of 
starvation,  and  since  he  had  cast  in  his  fortunes  with  a  com- 
pany whose  affairs  were  not  flourishing,  he  must  accept  the 
evils  of  the  situation  philosophically. 

"  Have  you  a  name? "  Binet  asked  him  once  in  the  course 
of  that  repast  and  during  a  pause  in  the  conversation. 

"It  happens  that  I  have,"  said  he.  "I  think  it  is  Parvis- 
simus." 

"Parvissimus?"  quoth  Binet.   "Is  that  a  family  name?" 

"In  such  a  company,  where  only  the  leader  enjoys  the 
privilege  of  a  family  name,  the  like  would  be  unbecoming 
its  least  member.  So  I  take  the  name  that  best  becomes  in 
me.  And  I  think  it  is  Parvissimus  —  the  very  least." 

Binet  was  amused.  It  was  droll;  it  showed  a  ready 
fancy.  Oh,  to  be  sure,  they  must  get  to  work  together  on 
those  scenarios. 

"I  shall  prefer  it  to  carpentering,"  said  Andre-Louis. 

Nevertheless  he  had  to  go  back  to  it  that  afternoon,  and 
to  labour  strenuously  until  four  o'clock,  when  at  last  the 
autocratic  Binet  announced  himself  satisfied  with  the 
preparations,  and  proceeded,  again  with  the  help  of  Andre- 


The  Comic  Muse  117 


Louis,  to  prepare  the  lights,  which  were  supplied  partly  by 
tallow  candles  and  partly  by  lamps  burning  fish-oil. 

At  five  o'clock  that  evening  the  three  knocks  were 
sounded,  and  the  curtain  rose  on  "The  Heartless  Father." 

Among  the  duties  inherited  by  Andre-Louis  from  the  de- 
parted F61icien  whom  he  replaced,  was  that  of  doorkeeper. 
This  duty  he  discharged  dressed  in  a  Polichinelle  costume, 
and  wearing  a  pasteboard  nose.  It  was  an  arrangement 
mutually  agreeable  to  M.  Binet  and  himself.  M.  Binet  — 
who  had  taken  the  further  precaution  of  retaining  Andr£- 
Louis'  own  garments  —  was  thereby  protected  against  the 
risk  of  his  latest  recruit  absconding  with  the  takings.  Andre- 
Louis,  without  illusions  on  the  score  of  Pantaloon's  real 
object,  agreed  to  it  willingly  enough,  since  it  protected  him 
from  the  chance  of  recognition  by  any  acquaintance  who 
might  possibly  be  in  Guichen. 

The  performance  was  in  every  sense  unexciting;  the  au- 
dience meagre  and  unenthusiastic.  The  benches  provided  in 
the  front  half  of  the  market  contained  some  twenty-seven 
persons:  eleven  at  twenty  sous  a  head  and  sixteen  at  twelve. 
Behind  these  stood  a  rabble  of  some  thirty  others  at  six 
sous  apiece.  Thus  the  gross  takings  were  two  louis,  ten 
livres,  and  two  sous.  By  the  time  M.  Binet  had  paid  for 
the  use  of  the  market,  his  lights,  and  the  expenses  of  his 
company  at  the  inn  over  Sunday,  there  was  not  likely  to 
be  very  much  left  towards  the  wages  of  his  players.  It  is 
not  surprising,  therefore,  that  M.  Binet's  bonhomie  should 
have  been  a  trifle  overcast  that  evening. 

"And  what  do  you  think  of  it?"  he  asked  Andr£-Louis, 
as  they  were  walking  back  to  the  inn  after  the  performance. 

"Possibly  it  could  have  been  worse;  probably  it  could 
not,"  said  he. 

In  sheer  amazement  M.  Binet  checked  in  his  stride,  and 
turned  to  look  at  his  companion. 

"Huh!"  said  he.   "Dieu  de  Dieu!  But  you  are  frank." 

"An  unpopular  form  of  service  among  fools,  I  know." 

"Well,  I  am  not  a  fool,"  said  Binet. 


Ii8  The  Buskin 


"That  is  why  I  am  frank.  I  pay  you  the  compliment  of 
assuming  intelligence  in  you,  M.  Binet." 

"Oh,  you  do?"  quoth  M.  Binet.  "And  who  the  devil  are 
you  to  assume  anything?  Your  assumptions  are  presump- 
tuous, sir."  And  with  that  he  lapsed  into  silence  and  the 
gloomy  business  of  mentally  casting  up  his  accounts. 

But  at  table  over  supper  a  half-hour  later  he  revived 
the  topic. 

"Our  latest  recruit,  this  excellent  M.  Parvissimus,"  he 
announced,  "has  the  impudence  to  tell  me  that  possibly 
our  comedy  could  have  been  worse,  but  that  probably  it 
could  not."  And  he  blew  out  his  great  round  cheeks  to 
invite  a  laugh  at  the  expense  of  that  foolish  critic. 

"That's  bad,"  said  the  swarthy  and  sardonic  Polichi- 
nelle.  He  was  grave  as  Rhadamanthus  pronouncing  judg- 
ment. "That's  bad.  But  what  is  infinitely  worse  is  that  the 
audience  had  the  impudence  to  be  of  the  same  mind." 

"An  ignorant  pack  of  clods,"  sneered  L6andre,  with  a 
toss  of  his  handsome  head. 

"You  are  wrong,"  quoth  Harlequin.  "You  were  born 
for  love,  my  dear,  not  criticism." 

Leandre  —  a  dull  dog,  as  you  will  have  conceived  — 
looked  contemptuously  down  upon  the  little  man.  "And 
you,  what  were  you  born  for?"  he  wondered. 

"Nobody  knows,"  was  the  candid  admission.  "Nor  yet 
why.  It  is  the  case  of  many  of  us,  my  dear,  believe  me." 

"But  why"  —  M.  Binet  took  him  up,  and  thus  spoilt 
the  beginnings  of  a  very  pretty  quarrel  —  "why  do  you  say 
that  Leandre  is  wrong?" 

"To  be  general,  because  he  is  always  wrong.  To  be  par- 
ticular, because  I  judge  the  audience  of  Guichen  to  be  too 
sophisticated  for  "The  Heartless  Father.'  " 

"You  would  put  it  more  happily,"  interposed  Andr6- 
Louis — who  was  the  cause  of  this  discussion  —  "if  you 
said  that  'The  Heartless  Father'  is  too  unsophisticated  for 
the  audience  of  Guichen." 

"Why,  what's  the  difference?"  asked  Leandre. 


The  Comic  Muse  119 


"I  did  n't  imply  a  difference.  I  merely  suggested  that  it 
is  a  happier  way  to  express  the  fact." 

"The  gentleman  is  being  subtle,"  sneered  Binet. 

"Why  happier?"  Harlequin  demanded. 

"Because  it  is  easier  to  bring  'The  Heartless  Father'  to 
the  sophistication  of  the  Guichen  audience,  than  the 
Guichen  audience  to  the  unsophistication  of  '  The  Heartless 
Father.'" 

"Let  me  think  it  out,"  groaned  Polichinelle,  and  he  took 
his  head  in  his  hands. 

But  from  the  tail  of  the  table  Andr6-Louis  was  challenged 
by  Climene  who  sat  there  between  Columbine  and  Madame. 

"You  would  alter  the  comedy,  would  you,  M.  Parvis- 
simus?"  she  cried. 

He  turned  to  parry  her  malice. 

"I  would  suggest  that  it  be  altered,"  he  corrected,  in- 
clining his  head. 

"And  how  would  you  alter  it,  monsieur?" 

"I?  Oh,  for  the  better." 

"But  of  course!"  She  was  sleekest  sarcasm.  "And  how 
would  you  do  it?" 

"Aye,  tell  us  that,"  roared  M.  Binet,  and  added:  "Si- 
lence, I  pray  you,  gentlemen  and  ladies.  Silence  for  M. 
Parvissimus." 

Andre-Louis  looked  from  father  to  daughter,  and  smiled. 
"Pardi!"  said  he.  "  I  am  between  bludgeon  and  dagger.  If 
I  escape  with  my  life,  I  shall  be  fortunate.  Why,  then,  since 
you  pin  me  to  the  very  wall,  I  '11  tell  you  what  I  should  do. 
I  should  go  back  to  the  original  and  help  myself  more  freely 
from  it." 

"The  original?"  questioned  M.  Binet  —  the  author. 

"It  is  called,  I  believe,  'Monsieur  de  Pourceaugnac,'  and 
was  written  by  Moliere." 

Somebody  tittered,  but  that  somebody  was  not  M.  Binet. 
He  had  been  touched  on  the  raw,  and  the  look  in  his  little 
eyes  betrayed  the  fact  that  his  bonhomme  exterior  covered 
anything  but  a  bonhomme. 


I2O  The  Buskin 


"You  charge  me  with  plagiarism,"  he  said  at  last;  "with 
filching  the  ideas  of  Moliere." 

"There  is  always,  of  course,"  said  Andre-Louis,  unruffled, 
"the  alternative  possibility  of  two  great  minds  working 
upon  parallel  lines." 

M.  Binet  studied  the  young  man  attentively  a  moment. 
He  found  him  bland  and  inscrutable,  and  decided  to  pin 
him  down. 

"Then  you  do  not  imply  that  I  have  been  stealing  from 
Moliere?" 

"I  advise  you  to  do  so,  monsieur,"  was  the  disconcerting 
reply. 

M.  Binet  was  shocked. 

"You  advise  me  to  do  so!  You  advise  me,  me,  Antoine 
Binet,  to  turn  thief  at  my  age!" 

"He  is  outrageous,"  said  mademoiselle,  indignantly. 

"Outrageous  is  the  word.  I  thank  you  for  it,  my  dear.  I 
take  you  on  trust,  sir.  You  sit  at  my  table,  you  have  the 
honour  to  be  included  in  my  company,  and  to  my  face  you 
have  the  audacity  to  advise  me  to  become  a  thief  —  the 
worst  kind  of  thief  that  is  conceivable,  a  thief  of  spiritual 
things,  a  thief  of  ideas!  It  is  insufferable,  intolerable!  I 
have  been,  I  fear,  deeply  mistaken  in  you,  monsieur;  just 
as  you  appear  to  have  been  mistaken  in  me.  I  am  not  the 
scoundrel  you  suppose  me,  sir,  and  I  will  not  number  in  my 
company  a  man  who  dares  to  suggest  that  I  should  become 
one.  Outrageous!" 

He  was  very  angry.  His  voice  boomed  through  the  little 
room,  and  the  company  sat  hushed  and  something  scared, 
their  eyes  upon  Andr6-Louis,  who  was  the  only  one  entirely 
unmoved  by  this  outburst  of  virtuous  indignation. 

"You  realize,  monsieur,"  he  said,  very  quietly,  "that  you 
are  insulting  the  memory  of  the  illustrious  dead?" 

"Eh?"  said  Binet. 

Andre-Louis  developed  his  sophistries. 

"You  insult  the  memory  of  Moliere,  the  greatest  orna- 
ment of  our  stage,  one  of  the  greatest  ornaments  of  our 


The  Comic  Muse  121 

nation,  when  you  suggest  that  there  is  vileness  in  doing  that 
which  he  never  hesitated  to  do,  which  no  great  author  yet 
has  hesitated  to  do.  You  cannot  suppose  that  Moliere  ever 
troubled  himself  to  be  original  in  the  matter  of  ideas.  You 
cannot  suppose  that  the  stories  he  tells  in  his  plays  have 
never  been  told  before.  They  were  culled,  as  you  very  well 
know  —  though  you  seem  momentarily  to  have  forgotten  it, 
and  it  is  therefore  necessary  that  I  should  remind  you  — 
they  were  culled,  many  of  them,  from  the  Italian  authors, 
who  themselves  had  culled  them  Heaven  alone  knows 
where.  Moliere  took  those  old  stories  and  retold  them  in 
his  own  language.  That  is  precisely  what  I  am  suggesting 
that  you  should  do.  Your  company  is  a  company  of  impro- 
visers.  You  supply  the  dialogue  as  you  proceed,  which  is 
rather  more  than  Moliere  ever  attempted.  You  may,  if 
you  prefer  it  —  though  it  would  seem  to  me  to  be  yielding 
to  an  excess  of  scruple  —  go  straight  to  Boccaccio  or  Sac- 
chetti.  But  even  then  you  cannot  be  sure  that  you  have 
reached  the  sources." 

Andre-Louis  came  off  with  flying  colours  after  that.  You 
see  what  a  debater  was  lost  in  him ;  how  nimble  he  was  in 
the  art  of  making  white  look  black.  The  company  was  im- 
pressed, and  no  one  more  that  M.  Binet,  who  found  him- 
self supplied  with  a  crushing  argument  against  those  who 
in  future  might  tax  him  with  the  impudent  plagiarisms 
which  he  undoubtedly  perpetrated.  He  retired  in  the  best 
order  he  could  from  the  position  he  had  taken  up  at  the 
outset. 

"So  that  you  think,"  he  said,  at  the  end  of  a  long  out- 
burst of  agreement,  "you  think  that  our  story  of  'The 
Heartless  Father'  could  be  enriched  by  dipping  into  'Mon- 
sieur de  Pourceaugnac,'  to  which  I  confess  upon  reflection 
that  it  may  present  certain  superficial  resemblances?" 

"I  do;  most  certainly  I  do  —  always  provided  that  you 
do  so  judiciously.  Times  have  changed  since  Moliere." 

It  was  as  a  consequence  of  this  that  Binet  retired  soon 
after,  taking  Andre-Louis  with  him.  The  pair  sat  together 


122  The  Buskin 


late  that  night,  and  were  again  in  close  communion  through- 
out the  whole  of  Sunday  morning. 

After  dinner  M.  Binet  read  to  the  assembled  company 
the  amended  and  amplified  canevas  of  "The  Heartless 
Father,"  which,  acting  upon  the  advice  of  M.  Parvissimus, 
he  had  been  at  great  pains  to  prepare.  The  company  had 
few  doubts  as  to  the  real  authorship  before  he  began  to 
read;  none  at  all  when  he  had  read.  There  was  a  verve,  a 
grip  about  this  story;  and,  what  was  more,  those  of  them 
who  knew  their  Moliere  realized  that  far  from  approaching 
the  original  more  closely,  this  canevas  had  drawn  farther 
away  from  it.  Moliere's  original  part  —  the  title  r61e  —  had 
dwindled  into  insignificance,  to  the  great  disgust  of  Poli- 
chinelle,  to  whom  it  fell.  But  the  other  parts  had  all  been 
built  up  into  importance,  with  the  exception  of  Leandre, 
who  remained  as  before.  The  two  great  r61es  were  now 
Scaramouche,  in  the  character  of  the  intriguing  Sbrigandini, 
and  Pantaloon  the  father.  There  was,  too,  a  comical  part 
for  Rhodomont,  as  the  roaring  bully  hired  by  Polichinelle 
to  cut  Leandre  into  ribbons.  And  in  view  of  the  importance 
now  of  Scaramouche,  the  play  had  been  rechristened  "Fi- 
garo-Scaramouche." 

This  last  had  not  been  without  a  deal  of  opposition  from 
M.  Binet.  But  his  relentless  collaborator,  who  was  in 
reality  the  real  author  —  drawing  shamelessly,  but  practi- 
cally at  last  upon  his  great  store  of  reading  —  had  over- 
borne him. 

"You  must  move  with  the  times,  monsieur.  In  Paris 
Beaumarchais  is  the  rage.  '  Figaro '  is  known  to-day  through- 
out the  world.  Let  us  borrow  a  little  of  his  glory.  It  will 
draw  the  people  in.  They  will  come  to  see  half  a  'Figaro* 
when  they  will  not  come  to  see  a  dozen  '  Heartless  Fathers.' 
Therefore  let  us  cast  the  mantle  of  Figaro  upon  some  one, 
and  proclaim  it  in  our  title." 

"But  as  I  am  the  head  of  the  company  ..."  began 
M.  Binet,  weakly. 

"If  you  will  be  blind  to  your  interests,  you  will  presently 


The  Comic  Muse  123 


be  a  head  without  a  body.  And  what  use  is  that?  Can  the 
shoulders  of  Pantaloon  carry  the  mantle  of  Figaro?  You 
laugh.  Of  course  you  laugh.  The  notion  is  absurd.  The 
proper  person  for  the  mantle  of  Figaro  is  Scaramouche,  who 
is  naturally  Figaro's  twin-brother." 

Thus  tyrannized,  the  tyrant  Binet  gave  way,  comforted 
by  the  reflection  that  if  he  understood  anything  at  all  about 
the  theatre,  he  had  for  fifteen  livres  a  month  acquired 
something  that  would  presently  be  earning  him  as  many 
louis. 

The  company's  reception  of  the  canevas  now  confirmed 
him,  if  we  except  Polichinelle,  who,  annoyed  at  having  lost 
half  his  part  in  the  alterations,  declared  the  new  scenario 
fatuous. 

"Ah!  You  call  my  work  fatuous,  do  you?"  M.  Binet 
hectored  him. 

"Your  work?"  said  Polichinelle,  to  add  with  his  tongue 
in  his  cheek:  "Ah,  pardon.  I  had  not  realized  that  you 
were  the  author." 

"Then  realize  it  now." 

"You  were  very  close  with  M.  Parvissimus  over  this 
authorship,"  said  Polichinelle,  with  impudent  suggestive- 
ness. 

"And  what  if  I  was?  What  do  you  imply?" 

"That  you  took  him  to  cut  quills  for  you,  of  course." 

"I'll  cut  your  ears  for  you  if  you're  not  civil,"  stormed 
the  infuriated  Binet. 

Polichinelle  got  up  slowly,  and  stretched  himself. 

"Dieu  de  Dieu!"  said  he.  "If  Pantaloon  is  to  play 
Rhodomont,  I  think  I'll  leave  you.  He  is  not  amusing  in 
the  part."  And  he  swaggered  out  before  M.  Binet  had  re- 
covered from  his  speechlessness. 


CHAPTER  IV 
EXIT  MONSIEUR  PARVISSIMUS 

AT  four  o'clock  on  Monday  afternoon  the  curtain  rose  on 
"  Figaro-Scaramouche "  to  an  audience  that  filled  three 
quarters  of  the  market-hall.  M.  Binet  attributed  this  good 
attendance  to  the  influx  of  people  to  Guichen  for  the  fair, 
and  to  the  magnificent  parade  of  his  company  through  the 
streets  of  the  township  at  the  busiest  time  of  the  day.  Andr6- 
Louis  attributed  it  entirely  to  the  title.  It  was  the  "Figaro " 
touch  that  had  fetched  in  the  better-class  bourgeoisie,  which 
filled  more  than  half  of  the  twenty-sous  places  and  three 
quarters  of  the  twelve-sous  seats.  The  lure  had  drawn 
them.  Whether  it  was  to  continue  to  do  so  would  depend 
upon  the  manner  in  which  the  canevas  over  which  he  had 
laboured  to  the  glory  of  Binet  was  interpreted  by  the 
company.  Of  the  merits  of  the  canevas  itself  he  had  no 
doubt.  The  authors  upon  whom  he  had  drawn  for  the  ele- 
ments of  it  were  sound,  and  he  had  taken  of  their  best,  which 
he  claimed  to  be  no  more  than  the  justice  due  to  them. 

The  company  excelled  itself.  The  audience  followed  with 
relish  the  sly  intriguings  of  Scaramouche,  delighted  in  the 
beauty  and  freshness"  of  Climene,  was  moved  almost  to 
tears  by  the  hard  fate  which  through  four  long  acts  kept 
her  from  the  hungering  arms  of  the  so  beautiful  Leandre, 
howled  its  delight  over  the  ignominy  of  Pantaloon,  the  buf- 
fooneries of  his  sprightly  lackey  Harlequin,  and  the  thrason- 
ical strut  and  bellowing  fierceness  of  the  cowardly  Rhodo- 
mont. 

The  success  of  the  Binet  troupe  in  Guichen  was  assured. 
That  night  the  company  drank  Burgundy  at  M.  Binet's 
expense.  The  takings  reached  the  sum  of  eight  louis,  which 
was  as  good  business  as  M.  Binet  had  ever  done  in  all  his 
career.  He  was  very  pleased.  Gratification  rose  like  steam 


Exit  Monsieur  Parvissimus  125 

from  his  fat  body.  He  even  condescended  so  far  as  to 
attribute  a  share  of  the  credit  for  the  success  to  M.  Par- 
vissimus. 

"His  suggestion,"  he  was  careful  to  say,  by  way  of 
properly  delimiting  that  share,  "was  most  valuable,  as  I 
perceived  at  the  time." 

"And  his  cutting  of  quills,"  growled  Polichinelle.  "Don't 
forget  that.  It  is  most  important  to  have  by  you  a  man 
who  understands  how  to  cut  a  quill,  as  I  shall  remember 
when  I  turn  author." 

But  not  even  that  gibe  could  stir  M.  Binet  out  of  his 
lethargy  of  content. 

On  Tuesday  the  success  was  repeated  artistically  and 
augmented  financially.  Ten  louis  and  seven  livres  was  the 
enormous  sum  that  Andr6-Louis,  the  doorkeeper,  counted 
over  to  M.  Binet  after  the  performance.  Never  yet  had 
M.  Binet  made  so  much  money  in  one  evening  —  and  a 
miserable  little  village  like  Guichen  was  certainly  the  last 
place  in  which  he  would  have  expected  this  windfall. 

"Ah,  but  Guichen  in  time  of  fair,"  AndreVLouis  reminded 
him.  "There  are  people  here  from  as  far  as  Nantes  and 
Rennes  to  buy  and  sell.  To-morrow,  being  the  last  day  of 
the  fair,  the  crowds  will  be  greater  than  ever.  We  should 
better  this  evening's  receipts." 

"Better  them?  I  shall  be  quite  satisfied  if  we  do  as  well, 
my  friend." 

"You  can  depend  upon  that,"  Andr6-Louis  assured  him. 
"Are  we  to  have  Burgundy?" 

And  then  the  tragedy  occurred.  It  announced  itself  in  a 
succession  of  bumps  and  thuds,  culminating  in  a  crash  out- 
side the  door  that  brought  them  all  to  their  feet  in  alarm. 

Pierrot  sprang  to  open,  and  beheld  the  tumbled  body  of  a 
man  lying  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs.  It  emitted  groans,  there- 
fore it  was  alive.  Pierrot  went  forward  to  turn  it  over,  and 
disclosed  the  fact  that  the  body  wore  the  wizened  face  of 
Scaramouche,  a  grimacing,  groaning,  twitching  Scara- 
mouche. 


126  The  Buskin 


The  whole  company,  pressing  after  Pierrot,  abandoned 
itself  to  laughter. 

"I  always  said  you  should  change  parts  with  me,"  cried 
Harlequin.  "You're  such  an  excellent  tumbler.  Have  you 
been  practising?" 

"Fool!"  Scaramouche  snapped.  " Must  you  be  laughing 
when  I  Ve  all  but  broken  my  neck?" 

"You  are  right.  We  ought  to  be  weeping  because  you 
did  n't  break  it.  Come,  man,  get  up,"  and  he  held  out  a 
hand  to  the  prostrate  rogue. 

Scaramouche  took  the  hand,  clutched  it,  heaved  himself 
from  the  ground,  then  with  a  scream  dropped  back  again. 

"My  foot!"  he  complained. 

Binet  rolled  through  the  group  of  players,  scattering  them 
to  right  and  left.  Apprehension  had  been  quick  to  seize 
him.  Fate  had  played  him  such  tricks  before. 

"What  ails  your  foot?"  quoth  he,  sourly. 

"It's  broken,  I  think,"  Scaramouche  complained. 

"Broken?  Bah!  Get  up,  man."  He  caught  him  under 
the  armpits  and  hauled  him  up. 

Scaramouche  came  howling  to  one  foot ;  the  other  doubled 
under  him  when  he  attempted  to  set  it  down,  and  he  must 
have  collapsed  again  but  that  Binet  supported  him.  He 
filled  the  place  with  his  plaint,  whilst  Binet  swore  amazingly 
and  variedly. 

"Must  you  bellow  like  a  calf,  you  fool?  Be  quiet.  A  chair 
here,  some  one." 

A  chair  was  thrust  forward.  He  crushed  Scaramouche 
down  into  it. 

"Let  us  look  at  this  foot  of  yours." 

Heedless  of  Scaramouche's  howls  of  pain,  he  swept  away 
shoe  and  stocking. 

"What  ails  it?"  he  asked,  staring.  "Nothing  that  I  can 
see."  He  seized  it,  heel  in  one  hand,  instep  in  the  other, 
and  gyrated  it.  Scaramouche  screamed  in  agony,  until 
Climene  caught  Binet 's  arm  and  made  him  stop. 

"My  God,  have  you  no  feelings?  "  she  reproved  her  father. 


Exit  Monsieur  Parvissimus  127 

"The  lad  has  hurt  his  foot.  Must  you  torture  him?  Will 
that  cure  it?" 

"Hurt  his  foot!"  said  Binet.  "I  can  see  nothing  the 
matter  with  his  foot  —  nothing  to  justify  all  this  uproar. 
He  has  bruised  it,  maybe  ..." 

"A {man  with  a  bruised  foot  does  n't  scream  like  that," 
said  Madame  over  Climene's  shoulder.  "Perhaps  he  has 
dislocated  it." 

"That  is  what  I  fear,"  whimpered  Scaramouche. 

Binet  heaved  himself  up  in  disgust. 

"Take  him  to  bed,"  he  bade  them,  "and  fetch  a  doctor 
to  see  him." 

It  was  done,  and  the  doctor  came.  Having  seen  the 
patient,  he  reported  that  nothing  very  serious  had  happened, 
but  that  in  falling  he  had  evidently  sprained  his  foot  a  little, 
A  few  days'  rest  and  all  would  be  well. 

"A  few  days!"  cried  Binet.  "God  of  God!  Do  you  mean 
that  he  can't  walk?" 

"It  would  be  unwise,  indeed  impossible  for  more  than  a 
few  steps." 

M.  Binet  paid  the  doctor's  fee,  and  sat  down  to  think.  He 
filled  himself  a  glass  of  Burgundy,  tossed  it  off  without  a 
word,  and  sat  thereafter  staring  into  the  empty  glass. 

"It  is  of  course  the  sort  of  thing  that  must  always  be 
happening  to  me,"  he  grumbled  to  no  one  in  particular.  The 
members  of  the  company  were  all  standing  in  silence  before 
him,  sharing  his  dismay.  "  I  might  have  known  that  this  — 
or  something  like  it  —  would  occur  to  spoil  the  first  vein  of 
luck  that  I  have  found  in  years.  Ah,  well,  it  is  finished. 
To-morrow  we  pack  and  depart.  The  best  day  of  the  fair,  on 
the  crest  of  the  wave  of  our  success  —  a  good  fifteen  louis  to 
be  taken,  and  this  happens!  God  of  God!" 

"Do  you  mean  to  abandon  to-morrow's  performance?" 

All  turned  to  stare  with  Binet  at  Andre-Louis. 

"Are  we  to  play  ' Figaro-Scaramouche '  without  Scara- 
mouche?" asked  Binet,  sneering. 

"Of  course  not,"    Andre>Louis  came  forward.    "But 


128  The  Buskin 


surely  some  rearrangement  of  the  parts  is  possible.  For  in- 
stance, there  is  a  fine  actor  in  Polichinelle." 

Polichinelle  swept  him  a  bow.  "Overwhelmed,"  said  he, 
ever  sardonic. 

"But  he  has  a  part  of  his  own,"  objected  Binet. 

"A  small  part,  which  Pasquariel  could  play." 

"And  who  will  play  Pasquariel?" 

"Nobody.  We  delete  it.  The  play  need  not  suffer." 

"He  thinks  of  everything,"  sneered  Polichinelle.   "What 


a  man 


But  Binet  was  far  from  agreement.  "Are  you  suggesting 
that  Polichinelle  should  play  Scaramouche?"  he  asked,  in- 
credulously. 

"Why  not?  He  is  able  enough !" 

"Overwhelmed  again,"  interjected  Polichinelle. 

"Play  Scaramouche  with  that  figure?"  Binet  heaved 
himself  up  to  point  a  denunciatory  finger  at  Polichinelle's 
sturdy,  thick-set  shortness. 

"For  lack  of  a  better,"  said  Andr6-Louis. 

"Overwhelmed  more  than  ever."  Polichinelle's  bow  was 
superb  this  time.  "Faith,  I  think  I '11  take  the  air  to  cool  me 
after  so  much  blushing." 

"Go  to  the  devil,"  Binet  flung  at  him. 

"Better  and  better."  Polichinelle  made  for  the  door.  On 
the  threshold  he  halted  and  struck  an  attitude.  "Under- 
stand me,  Binet.  I  do  not  now  play  Scaramouche  in  any 
circumstances  whatever."  And  he  went  out.  On  the  whole, 
it  was  a  very  dignified  exit. 

Andr6-Louis  shrugged,  threw  out  his  arms,  and  let  them 
fall  to  his  sides  again.  "You  have  ruined  everything,"  he  told 
M.  Binet.  "The  matter  could  easily  have  been  arranged. 
Well,  well,  it  is  you  are  master  here;  and  since  you  want  us 
to  pack  and  be  off,  that  is  what  we  will  do,  I  suppose." 

He  went  out,  too.  M.  Binet  stood  in  thought  a  moment, 
then  followed  him,  his  little  eyes  very  cunning.  He  caught 
him  up  in  the  doorway.  "Let  us  take  a  walk  together, 
M.  Parvissimus,"  said  he,  very  affably. 


Exit  Monsieur  Parvissimus  129 

He  thrust  his  arm  through  Andre-Louis',  and  led  him 
out  into  the  street,  where  there  was  still  considerable 
movement.  Past  the  booths  that  ranged  about  the  market 
they  went,  and  down  the  hill  towards  the  bridge. 

"I  don't  think  we  shall  pack  to-morrow,"  said  M.  Binet, 
presently.  "In  fact,  we  shall  play  to-morrow  night." 

"Not  if  I  know  Polichinelle.  You  have  ..." 

"I  am  not  thinking  of  Polichinelle." 

"Of  whom,  then?" 

"Of  yourself." 

"I  am  flattered,  sir.  And  in  what  capacity  are  you 
thinking  of  me?"  There  was  something  too  sleek  and  oily 
in  Binet's  voice  for  Andr6-Louis'  taste. 

"  I  am  thinking  of  you  in  the  part  of  Scaramouche." 

"Day-dreams,"  said  Andre-Louis.  "You  are  amusing 
yourself,  of  course." 

"Not  in  the  least.   I  am  quite  serious." 

"But  I  am  not  an  actor." 

"You  told  me  that  you  could  be." 

"Oh,  upon  occasion  ...  a  small  part,  perhaps  ..." 

"Well,  here  is  a  big  part  —  the  chance  to  arrive  at  a 
single  stride.  How  many  men  have  had  such  a  chance?" 

"  It  is  a  chance  I  do  not  covet,  M.  Binet.  Shall  we  change 
the  subject?"  He  was  very  frosty,  as  much  perhaps  be- 
cause he  scented  in  M.  Binet's  manner  something  that  was 
vaguely  menacing  as  for  any  other  reason. 

"We'll  change  the  subject  when  I  please,"  said  M. 
Binet,  allowing  a  glimpse  of  steel  to  glimmer  through  the 
silk  of  him.  "To-morrow  night  you  play  Scaramouche. 
You  are  ready  enough  in  your  wits,  your  figure  is  ideal,  and 
you  have  just  the  kind  of  mordant  humour  for  the  part. 
You  should  be  a  great  success." 

"It  is  much  more  likely  that  I  should  be  an  egregious 
failure." 

"That  won't  matter,"  said  Binet,  cynically,  and  ex- 
plained himself.  "The  failure  will  be  personal  to  yourself. 
The  receipts  will  be  safe  by  then." 


130  The  Buskin 


"Much  obliged,"  said  Andr6-Louis. 

"We  should  take  fifteen  louis  to-morrow  night." 

"  It  is  unfortunate  that  you  are  without  a  Scaramouche," 
said  Andr6-Louis. 

"It  is  fortunate  that  I  have  one,  M.  Parvissimus." 

Andr6-Louis  disengaged  his  arm.  "I  begin  to  find  you 
tiresome,"  said  he.  "I  think  I  will  return." 

"A  moment,  M.  Parvissimus.  If  I  am  to  lose  that  fifteen 
louis,  you  'It  not  take  it  amiss  that  I  compensate  myself  in 
other  ways?" 

"That  is  your  own  concern,  M.  Binet." 

"  Pardon,  M.  Parvissimus.  It  may  possibly  be  also  yours." 
Binet  took  his  arm  again.  "Do  me  the  kindness  to  step 
across  the  street  with  me.  Just  as  far  as  the  post-office  there. 
I  have  something  to  show  you." 

Andre-Louis  went.  Before  they  reached  that  sheet  of 
paper  nailed  upon  the  door,  he  knew  exactly  what  it  would 
say.  And  in  effect  it  was,  as  he  had  supposed,  that  twenty 
louis  would  be  paid  for  information  leading  to  the  appre- 
hension of  one  Andre-Louis  Moreau,  lawyer  of  Gavrillac, 
who  was  wanted  by  the  King's  Lieutenant  in  Rennes  upon  a 
charge  of  sedition. 

M.  Binet  watched  him  whilst  he  read.  Their  arms  were 
linked,  and  Binet's  grip  was  firm  and  powerful. 

"Now,  my  friend,"  said  he,  "will  you  be  M.  Parvissimus 
and  play  Scaramouche  to-morrow,  or  will  you  be  Andr6- 
Louis  Moreau  of  Gavrillac  and  go  to  Rennes  to  satisfy  the 
King's  Lieutenant?  " 

"And  if  it  should  happen  that  you  are  mistaken?"  quoth 
Andre-Louis,  his  face  a  mask. 

" I  '11  take  the  risk  of  that,"  leered  M.  Binet.  "You  men- 
tioned, I  think,  that  you  were  a  lawyer.  An  indiscretion,  my 
dear.  It  is  unlikely  that  two  lawyers  will  be  in  hiding  at  the 
same  time  in  the  same  district.  You  see  it  is  not  really  clever 
of  me.  Well,  M.  Andr£-Louis  Moreau,  lawyer  of  Gavrillac, 
what  is  it  to  be?" 

"We  will  talk  it  over  as  we  walk  back,"  said  Andre-Louis. 


Exit  Monsieur  Parvissimus  131 

"What  is  there  to  talk  over?" 

"  One  or  two  things,  I  think.  I  must  know  where  I  stand. 
Come,  sir,  if  you  please." 

"Very  well,"  said  M.  Binet,  and  they  turned  up  the 
street  again,  but  M.  Binet  maintained  a  firm  hold  of  his 
young  friend's  arm,  and  kept  himself  on  the  alert  for  any 
tricks  that  the  young  gentleman  might  be  disposed  to  play. 
It  was  an  unnecessary  precaution.  Andre-Louis  was  not  the 
man  to  waste  his  energy  futilely.  He  knew  that  in  bodily 
strength  he  was  no  match  at  all  for  the  heavy  and  powerful 
Pantaloon. 

"If  I  yield  to  your  most  eloquent  and  seductive  persua- 
sions, M.  Binet,"  said  he,  sweetly,  "what  guarantee  do  you 
give  me  that  you  will  not  sell  me  for  twenty  louis  after  I 
shall  have  served  your  turn?" 

"You  have  my  word  of  honour  for  that."  M.  Binet  was 
emphatic. 

Andr£-Louis  laughed.  "Oh,  we  are  to  talk  of  honour, 
are  we?  Really,  M.  Binet?  It  is  clear  you  think  me  a  fool." 

In  the  dark  he  did  not  see  the  flush  that  leapt  to  M. 
Binet's  round  face.  It  was  some  moments  before  he  replied. 

"Perhaps  you  are  right,"  he  growled.  "What  guarantee 
do  you  want?" 

"I  do  not  know  what  guarantee  you  can  possibly  give." 

"I  have  said  that  I  will  keep  faith  with  you." 

"Until  you  find  it  more  profitable  to  sell  me." 

"You  have  it  in  your  power  to  make  it  more  profitable 
always  for  me  to  keep  faith  with  you.  It  is  due  to  you  that 
we  have  done  so  well  in  Guichen.  Oh,  I  admit  it  frankly." 

"In  private,"  said  Andr£-Louis. 

M.  Binet  left  the  sarcasm  unheeded. 

"What  you  have  done  for  us  here  with  ' Figaro-Scara- 
mouche,'  you  can  do  elsewhere  with  other  things.  Natur- 
ally, I  shall  not  want  to  lose  you.  That  is  your  guarantee." 

"Yet  to-night  you  would  sell  me  for  twenty  louis." 

"Because  —  name  of  God !  —  you  enrage  me  by  refusing 
me  a  service  well  within  your  powers.  Don't  you  think,  had 


132  The  Buskin 


I  been  entirely  the  rogue  you  think  me,  I  could  have  sold 
you  on  Saturday  last?  I  want  you  to  understand  me,  my 
dear  Parvissimus." 

"I  beg  that  you'll  not  apologize.  You  would  be  more 
tiresome  than  ever." 

"Of  course  you  will  be  gibing.  You  never  miss  a  chance 
to  gibe.  It'll  bring  you  trouble  before  you  're  done  with  life. 
Come;  here  we  are  back  at  the  inn,  and  you  have  not  yet 
given  me  your  decision." 

Andre-Louis  looked  at  him.  "I  must  yield,  of  course.  I 
can't  help  myself." 

M.  Binet  released  his  arm  at  last,  and  slapped  him  heart- 
ily upon  the  back.  "Well  declared,  my  lad.  You'll  never 
regret  it.  If  I  know  anything  of  the  theatre,  I  know  that 
you  have  made  the  great  decision  of  your  life.  To-morrow 
night  you'll  thank  me." 

Andre-Louis  shrugged,  and  stepped  out  ahead  towards  the 
inn.  But  M.  Binet  called  him  back. 

"M.  Parvissimus!" 

He  turned.  There  stood  the  man's  great  bulk,  the  moon- 
light beating  down  upon  that  round  fat  face  of  his,  and  he 
was  holding  out  his  hand. 

"  M.  Parvissimus,  no  rancour.  It  is  a  thing  I  do  not  admit 
into  my  life.  You  will  shake  hands  with  me,  and  we  will 
forget  all  this." 

Andr£-Louis  considered  him  a  moment  with  disgust.  He 
was  growing  angry.  Then,  realizing  this,  he  conceived  him- 
self ridiculous,  almost  as  ridiculous  as  that  sly,  scoundrelly 
Pantaloon.  He  laughed  and  took  the  outstretched  hand. 

"No  rancour?"  M.  Binet  insisted. 

"Oh,  no  rancour,"  said  Andr6-Louis. 


CHAPTER  V 
ENTER  SCARAMOUCHE 

DRESSED  in  the  close-fitting  suit  of  a  bygone  age,  all  black, 
from  flat  velvet  cap  to  resetted  shoes,  his  face  whitened  and 
a  slight  up-curled  moustache  glued  to  his  upper  lip,  a  small- 
sword at  his  side  and  a  guitar  slung  behind  him,  Scara- 
mouche  surveyed  himself  in  a  mirror,  and  was  disposed  to 
be  sardonic  —  which  was  the  proper  mood  for  the  part. 

He  reflected  that  his  life,  which  until  lately  had  been  of  a 
stagnant,  contemplative  quality,  had  suddenly  become  ex- 
cessively active.  In  the  course  of  one  week  he  had  been 
lawyer,  mob-orator,  outlaw,  property-man,  and  finally 
buffoon.  Last  Wednesday  he  had  been  engaged  in  moving 
an  audience  of  Rennes  to  anger ;  on  this  Wednesday  he  was 
to  move  an  audience  of  Guichen  to  mirth.  Then  he  had 
been  concerned  to  draw  tears ;  to-day  it  was  his  business  to 
provoke  laughter.  There  was  a  difference,  and  yet  there  was 
a  parallel.  Then  as  now  he  had  been  a  comedian;  and  the 
part  that  he  had  played  then  was,  when  you  came  to  think 
of  it,  akin  to  the  part  he  was  to  play  this  evening.  For  what 
had  he  been  at  Rennes  but  a  sort  of  Scaramouche  —  the 
little  skirmisher,  the  astute  intriguer,  scattering  the  seed  of 
trouble  with  a  sly  hand?  The  only  difference  lay  in  the  fact 
that  to-day  he  went  forth  under  the  name  that  properly 
described  his  type,  whereas  last  week  he  had  been  disguised 
as  a  respectable  young  provincial  attorney. 

He  bowed  to  his  reflection  in  the  mirror. 

"Buffoon!"  he  apostrophized  it.  "At  last  you  have 
found  yourself.  At  last  you  have  come  into  your  heritage. 
You  should  be  a  great  success." 

Hearing  his  new  name  called  out  by  M.  Binet,  he  went 
below  to  find  the  company  assembled,  and  waiting  in  the 
entrance  corridor  of  the  inn. 


134  The  Buskin 


He  was,  of  course,  an  object  of  great  interest  to  all  the 
company.  Most  critically  was  he  conned  by  M.  Binet  and 
mademoiselle;  by  the  former  with  gravely  searching  eyes, 
by  the  latter  with  a  curl  of  scornful  lip. 

"You'll  do,"  M.  Binet  commended  his  make-up.  "At 
least  you  look  the  part." 

"Unfortunately  men  are  not  always  what  they  look," 
said  Climene,  acidly. 

"That  is  a  truth  that  does  not  at  present  apply  to  me," 
said  Andre-Louis.  "For  it  is  the  first  time  in  my  life  that 
I  look  what  I  am." 

Mademoiselle  curled  her  lip  a  little  further,  and  turned 
her  shoulder  to  him.  But  the  others  thought  him  very 
witty  —  probably  because  he  was  obscure.  Columbine  en- 
couraged him  with  a  friendly  smile  that  displayed  her  large 
white  teeth,  and  M.  Binet  swore  yet  once  again  that  he 
would  be  a  great  success,  since  he  threw  himself  with  such 
spirit  into  the  undertaking.  Then  in*  a  voice  that  for  the 
moment  he  appeared  to  have  borrowed  from  the  roaring 
captain,  M.  Binet  marshalled  them  for  the  short  parade 
across  to  the  market-hall. 

The  new  Scaramouche  fell  into  place  beside  Rhodomont. 
The  old  one,  hobbling  on  a  crutch,  had  departed  an  hour 
ago  to  take  the  place  of  doorkeeper,  vacated  of  necessity  by 
Andr6-Louis.  So  that  the  exchange  between  those  two  was 
a  complete  one. 

Headed  by  Polichinelle  banging  his  great  drum  and  Pierrot 
blowing  his  trumpet,  they  set  out,  and  were  duly  passed  in 
review  by  the  ragamuffins  drawn  up  in  files  to  enjoy  so 
much  of  the  spectacle  as  was  to  be  obtained  for  nothing. 

Ten  minutes  later  the  three  knocks  sounded,  and  the  cur- 
tains were  drawn  aside  to  reveal  a  battered  set  that  was 
partly  garden,  partly  forest,  in  which  Climene  feverishly 
looked  for  the  coming  of  Leandre.  In  the  wings  stood  the 
beautiful,  melancholy  lover,  awaiting  his  cue,  and  imme- 
diately behind  him  the  unfledged  Scaramouche,  who  was 
anon  to  follow  him. 


Enter  Scaramouche  135 

Andr£-Louis  was  assailed  with  nausea  in  that  dread  mo- 
ment. He  attempted  to  take  a  lightning  mental  review  of 
the  first  act  of  this  scenario  of  which  he  was  himself  the 
author-in-chief ;  but  found  his  mind  a  complete  blank.  With 
the  perspiration  starting  from  his  skin,  he  stepped  back  to 
the  wall,  where  above  a  dim  lantern  was  pasted  a  sheet 
bearing  the  brief  outline  of  the  piece.  He  was  still  studying 
it,  when  his  arm  was  clutched,  and  he  was  pulled  violently 
towards  the  wings.  He  had  a  glimpse  of  Pantaloon's  gro- 
tesque face,  its  eyes  blazing,  and  he  caught  a  raucous  growl: 

"Climene  has  spoken  your  cue  three  times  already." 

Before  he  realized  it,  he  had  been  bundled  on  to  the  stage, 
and  stood  there  foolishly,  blinking  in  the  glare  of  the  foot- 
lights, with  their  tin  reflectors.  So  utterly  foolish  and  be- 
wildered did  he  look  that  volley  upon  volley  of  laughter 
welcomed  him  from  the  audience,  which  this  evening 
packed  the  hall  from  end  to  end.  Trembling  a  little,  his 
bewilderment  at  first  increasing,  he  stood  there  to  receive 
that  rolling  tribute  to  his  absurdity.  Climene  was  eyeing 
him  with  expectant  mockery,  savouring  in  advance  his  hu- 
miliation; Leandre  regarded  him  in  consternation,  whilst 
behind  the  scenes,  M.  Binet  was  dancing  in  fury. 

"Name  of  a  name,"  he  groaned  to  the  rather  scared 
members  of  the  company  assembled  there,  "what  will 
happen  when  they  discover  that  he  is  n't  acting?" 

But  they  never  did  discover  it.  Scaramouche's  bewil- 
dered paralysis  lasted  but  a  few  seconds.  He  realized  that 
he  was  being  laughed  at,  and  remembered  that  his  Scara- 
mouche was  a  creature  to  be  laughed  with,  and  not  at.  He 
must  save  the  situation;  twist  it  to  his  own  advantage  as 
best  he  could.  And  now  his  real  bewilderment  and  terror 
was  succeeded  by  acted  bewilderment  and  terror  far  more 
marked,  but  not  quite  so  funny.  He  contrived  to  make  it 
clearly  appear  that  his  terror  was  of  some  one  off  the  stage. 
He  took  cover  behind  a  painted  shrub,  and  thence,  the 
laughter  at  last  beginning  to  subside,  he  addressed  himself 
to  Climene  and  L£andre. 


136  The  Buskin 


"Forgive  me,  beautiful  lady,  if  the  abrupt  manner  of  my 
entrance  startled  you.  The  truth  is  that  I  have  never  been 
the  same  since  that  last  affair  of  mine  with  Almaviva.  My 
heart  is  not  what  it  used  to  be.  Down  there  at  the  end  of 
the  lane  I  came  face  to  face  with  an  elderly  gentleman 
carrying  a  heavy  cudgel,  and  the  horrible  thought  entered 
my  mind  that  it  might  be  your  father,  and  that  our  little 
stratagem  to  get  you  safely  married  might  already  have 
been  betrayed  to  him.  I  think  it  was  the  cudgel  put  such  a 
notion  in  my  head.  Not  that  I  am  afraid.  I  am  not  really 
afraid  of  anything.  But  I  could  not  help  reflecting  that,  if 
it  should  really  have  been  your  father,  and  he  had  broken 
my  head  with  his  cudgel,  your  hopes  would  have  perished 
with  me.  For  without  me,  what  should  you  have  done,  my 
poor  children?" 

A  ripple  of  laughter  from  the  audience  had  been  steadily 
enheartening  him,  and  helping  him  to  recover  his  natural 
impudence.  It  was  clear  they  found  him  comical.  They 
were  to  find  him  far  more  comical  than  ever  he  had  in- 
tended, and  this  was  largely  due  to  a  fortuitous  circum- 
stance upon  which  he  had  insufficiently  reckoned.  The  fear 
of  recognition  by  some  one  from  Gavrillac  or  Rennes  had 
been  strong  upon  him.  His  face  was  sufficiently  made  up 
to  baffle  recognition;  but  there  remained  his  voice.  To  dis- 
semble this  he  had  availed  himself  of  the  fact  that  Figaro  was 
a  Spaniard.  He  had  known  a  Spaniard  at  Louis  le  Grand 
who  spoke  a  fluent  but  most  extraordinary  French,  with  a 
grotesque  excess  of  sibilant  sounds.  It  was  an  accent  that  he 
had  often  imitated,  as  youths  will  imitate  characteristics 
that  excite  their  mirth.  Opportunely  he  had  bethought  him 
of  that  Spanish  student,  and  it  was  upon  his  speech  that 
to-night  he  modelled  his  own.  The  audience  of  Guichen 
found  it  as  laughable  on  his  lips  as  he  and  his  fellows  had 
found  it  formerly  on  the  lips  of  that  derided  Spaniard. 

Meanwhile,  behind  the  scenes,  Binet  —  listening  to  that 
glib  impromptu  of  which  the  scenario  gave  no  indication  — 
had  recovered  from  his  fears. 


Enter  Scaramouche  137 

"Dieu  de  Dieu!"  he  whispered,  grinning.  "Did  he  do  it, 
then,  on  purpose?" 

It  seemed  to  him  impossible  that  a  man  who  had  been  so 
terror-stricken  as  he  had  fancied  Andre-Louis,  could  have 
recovered  his  wits  so  quickly  and  completely.  Yet  the  doubt 
remained. 

To  resolve  it  after  the  curtain  had  fallen  upon  a  first  act 
that  had  gone  with  a  verve  unrivalled  until  this  hour  in 
the  annals  of  the  company,  borne  almost  entirely  upon  the 
slim  shoulders  of  the  new  Scaramouche,  M.  Binet  bluntly 
questioned  him. 

They  were  standing  in  the  space  that  did  duty  as  green- 
room, the  company  all  assembled  there,  showering  congratu- 
lations upon  their  new  recruit.  Scaramouche,  a  little  ex- 
alted at  the  moment  by  his  success,  however  trivial  he 
might  consider  it  to-morrow,  took  then  a  full  revenge  upon 
Climene  for  the  malicious  satisfaction  with  which  she  had 
regarded  his  momentary  blank  terror. 

"I  do  not  wonder  that  you  ask,"  said  he.  "Faith,  I 
should  have  warned  you  that  I  intended  to  do  my  best 
from  the  start  to  put  the  audience  in  a  good  humour  with 
me.  Mademoiselle  very  nearly  ruined  everything  by  refus- 
ing to  reflect  any  of  my  terror.  She  was  not  even  startled. 
Another  time,  mademoiselle,  I  shall  give  you  full  warning 
of  my  every  intention." 

She  crimsoned  under  her  grease-paint.  But  before  she 
could  find  an  answer  of  sufficient  venom,  her  father  was 
rating  her  soundly  for  her  stupidity  —  the  more  soundly 
because  himself  he  had  been  deceived  by  Scaramouche's 
supreme  acting. 

Scaramouche's  success  in  the  first  act  was  more  than 
confirmed  as  the  performance  proceeded.  Completely  mas- 
ter of  himself  by  now,  and  stimulated  as  only  success  can 
stimulate,  he  warmed  to  his  work.  Impudent,  alert,  sly, 
graceful,  he  incarnated  the  very  ideal  of  Scaramouche,  and 
he  helped  out  his  own  native  wit  by  many  a  remembered 
line  from  Beaumarchais,  thereby  persuading  the  better  in- 


138  The  Buskin 


formed  among  the  audience  that  here  indeed  was  something 
of  the  real  Figaro,  and  bringing  them,, as  it  were,  into  touch 
with  the  great  world  of  the  capital. 

When  at  last  the  curtain  fell  for  the  last  time,  it  was 
Scaramouche  who  shared  with  Climene  the  honours  of  the 
evening,  his  name  that  was  coupled  with  hers  in  the  calls 
that  summoned  them  before  the  curtains.1 

As  they  stepped  back,  and  the  curtains  screened  them 
again  from  the  departing  audience,  M.  Binet  approached 
them,  rubbing  his  fat  hands  softly  together.  This  runagate 
young  lawyer,  whom  chance  had  blown  into  his  company, 
had  evidently  been  sent  by  Fate  to  make  his  fortune  for 
him.  The  sudden  success  at  Guichen,  hitherto  unrivalled, 
should  be  repeated  and  augmented  elsewhere.  There  would 
be  no  more  sleeping  under  hedges  and  tightening  of  belts. 
Adversity  was  behind  him.  He  placed  a  hand  upon  Scara- 
mouche's  shoulder,  and  surveyed  him  with  a  smile  whose 
oiliness  not  even  his  red  paint  and  colossal  false  nose  could 
dissemble. 

"And  what  have  you  to  say  to  me  now?"  he  asked  him. 
"Was  I  wrong  when  I  assured  you  that  you  would  succeed? 
Do  you  think  I  have  followed  my  fortunes  in  the  theatre 
for  a  lifetime  without  knowing  a  born  actor  when  I  see  one? 
You  are  my  discovery,  Scaramouche.  I  have  discovered  you 
to  yourself.  I  have  set  your  feet  upon  the  road  to  fame  and 
fortune.  I  await  your  thanks." 

Scaramouche  laughed  at  him,  and  his  laugh  was  not  alto- 
gether pleasant. 

"Always  Pantaloon ! "  said  he. 

The  great  countenance  became  overcast.  "  I  see  that  you 
do  not  yet  forgive  me  the  little  stratagem  by  which  I  forced 
you  to  do  justice  to  yourself.  Ungrateful  dog!  As  if  I  could 
have  had  any  purpose  but  to  make  you ;  and  I  have  done  so. 
Continue  as  you  have  begun,  and  you  will  end  in  Paris. 
You  may  yet  tread  the  stage  of  the  Com6die  Franchise, 
the  rival  of  Talma,  Fleury,  and  Dugazon.  When  that  hap- 
pens to  you  perhaps  you  will  feel  the  gratitude  that  is  due 


Enter  Scaramouche  139 

to  old  Binet,  for  you  will  owe  it  all  to  this  soft-hearted  old 
fool." 

"  If  you  were  as  good  an  actor  on  the  stage  as  you  are  in 
private,"  said  Scaramouche,  "you  would  yourself  have  won 
to  the  Comedie  Franchise  long  since.  But  I  bear  no  rancour, 
M.  Binet."  He  laughed,  and  put  out  his  hand. 

Binet  fell  upon  it  and  wrung  it  heartily. 

"That,  at  least,  is  something,"  he  declared.  "My  boy,  I 
have  great  plans  for  you  —  for  us.  To-morrow  we  go  to 
Maure;  there  is  a  fair  there  to  the  end  of  this  week.  Then 
on  Monday  we  take  our  chances  at  Pipriac,  and  after  that 
we  must  consider.  It  may  be  that  I  am  about  to  realize 
the  dream  of  my  life.  There  must  have  been  upwards  of 
fifteen  louis  taken  to-night.  Where  the  devil  is  that  rascal 
Cordemais?" 

Cordemais  was  the  name  of  the  original  Scaramouche, 
who  had  so  unfortunately  twisted  his  ankle.  That  Binet 
should  refer  to  him  by  his  secular  designation  was  a  sign 
that  in  the  Binet  company  at  least  he  had  fallen  for  ever 
from  the  lofty  eminence  of  Scaramouche. 

"  Let  us  go  and  find  him,  and  then  we  '11  away  to  the  inn  and 
crack  a  bottle  of  the  best  Burgundy,  perhaps  two  bottles." 

But  Cordemais  was  not  readily  to  be  found.  None  of  the 
company  had  seen  him  since  the  close  of  the  performance. 
M.  Binet  went  round  to  the  entrance.  Cordemais  was  not 
there.  At  first  he  was  annoyed ;  then  as  he  continued  in  vain 
to  bawl  the  fellow's  name,  he  began  to  grow  uneasy;  lastly, 
when  Polichinelle,  who  was  with  them,  discovered  Cor- 
demais' crutch  standing  discarded  behind  the  door,  M.  Binet 
became  alarmed.  A  dreadful  suspicion  entered  his  mind. 
He  grew  visibly  pale  under  his  paint. 

"But  this  evening  he  could  n't  walk  without  the  crutch!" 
he  exclaimed.  "How  then  does  he  come  to  leave  it  there 
and  take  himself  off?" 

"Perhaps  he  has  gone  on  to  the  inn,"  suggested  some  one. 

"But  he  couldn't  walk  without  his  crutch,"  M.  Binet 
insisted. 


140  The  Buskin 


Nevertheless,  since  clearly  he  was  not  anywhere  about  the 
market-hall,  to  the  inn  they  all  trooped,  and  deafened  the 
landlady  with  their  inquiries. 

"Oh,  yes,  M.  Cordemais  came  in  some  time  ago." 

"Where  is  he  now?" 

"He  went  away  again  at  once.  He  just  came  for  his  bag." 

"For  his  bag!"  Binet  was  on  the  point  of  an  apoplexy. 
"  How  long  ago  was  that?  " 

She  glanced  at  the  timepiece  on  the  overmantel.  "It 
would  be  about  half  an  hour  ago.  It  was  a  few  minutes  be- 
fore the  Rennes  diligence  passed  through." 

"The  Rennes  diligence!"  M.  Binet  was  almost  inarticu- 
late. "Could  he  ...  could  he  walk?"  he  asked,  on  a  note 
of  terrible  anxiety. 

"Walk?  He  ran  like  a  hare  when  he  left  the  inn.  I  thought, 
myself,  that  his  agility  was  suspicious,  seeing  how  lame  he  had 
been  since  he  fell  downstairs  yesterday.  Is  anything  wrong?  " 

M.  Binet  had  collapsed  into  a  chair.  He  took  his  head  in 
his  hands,  and  groaned. 

"The  scoundrel  was  shamming  all  the  time!"  exclaimed 
Climene.  "  His  fall  downstairs  was  a  trick.  He  was  playing 
for  this.  He  has  swindled  us." 

"Fifteen  louis  at  least  —  perhaps  sixteen!"  said  M.  Binet. 
"Oh,  the  heartless  blackguard!  To  swindle  me  who  have 
been  as  a  father  to  him  —  and  to  swindle  me  in  such  a 
moment." 

From  the  ranks  of  the  silent,  awe-stricken  company,  each 
member  of  which  was  wondering  by  how  much  of  the  loss 
his  own  meagre  pay  would  be  mulcted,  there  came  a  splutter 
of  laughter. 

M.  Binet  glared  with  blood-injected  eyes. 

"Who  laughs?"  he  roared.  "What  heartless  wretch  has 
the  audacity  to  laugh  at  my  misfortune?" 

Andr6-Louis,  still  in  the  sable  glories  of  Scaramouche, 
stood  forward.  He  was  laughing  still. 

"It  is  you,  is  it?  You  may  laugh  on  another  note,  my 
friend,  if  I  choose  a  way  to  recoup  myself  that  I  know  of." 


Enter  Scaramouche  141 

"Dullard!"  Scaramouche  scorned  him.  "Rabbit-brained 
elephant!  What  if  Cordemais  has  gone  with  fifteen  louis? 
Has  n't  he  left  you  something  worth  twenty  times  as  much?  " 

M.  Binet  gaped  uncomprehending. 

"You  are  between  two  wines,  I  think.  You've  been 
drinking,"  he  concluded. 

"So  I  have  —  at  the  fountain  of  Thalia.  Oh,  don't  you 
see?  Don't  you  see  the  treasure  that  Cordemais  has  left 
behind  him?" 

"What  has  he  left?" 

"A  unique  idea  for  the  groundwork  of  a  scenario.  It  un- 
folds itself  all  before  me.  I  '11  borrow  part  of  the  title  from 
Moliere.  We'll  call  it '  Les  Fourberies  de  Scaramouche,'  and 
if  we  don't  leave  the  audiences  of  Maure  and  Pipriac  with 
sides  aching  from  laughter  I  '11  play  the  dullard  Pantaloon  in 
future." 

Polichinelle  smacked  fist  into  palm.  "Superb!"  he  said, 
fiercely.  "To  cull  fortune  from  misfortune,  to  turn  loss  into 
profit,  that  is  to  have  genius." 

Scaramouche  made  a  leg.  "Polichinelle,  you  are  a  fellow 
after  my  own  heart.  I  love  a  man  who  can  discern  my  merit. 
If  Pantaloon  had  half  your  wit,  we  should  have  Burgundy 
to-night  in  spite  of  the  flight  of  Cordemais." 

"Burgundy?"  roared  M.  Binet,  and  before  he  could  get 
farther  Harlequin  had  clapped  his  hands  together. 

"That  is  the  spirit,  M.  Binet.  You  heard  him,  landlady. 
He  called  for  Burgundy." 

"I  called  for  nothing  of  the  kind." 

"But  you  heard  him,  dear  madame.  We  all  heard  him." 

The  others  made  chorus,  whilst  Scaramouche  smiled  at 
him,  and  patted  his  shoulder. 

"Up,  man,  a  little  courage.  Did  you  not  say  that  fortune 
awaits  us?  And  have  we  not  now  the  wherewithal  to 
constrain  fortune?  Burgundy,  then,  to  ...  to  toast  'Les 
Fourberies  de  Scaramouche.'" 

And  M.  Binet,  who  was  not  blind  to  the  force  of  the 
idea,  yielded,  took  courage,  and  got  drunk  with  the  rest. 


CHAPTER  VI 
CLIMfiNE 

DILIGENT  search  among  the  many  scenarios  of  the  impro- 
visers  which  have  survived  their  day,  has  failed  to  bring  to 
light  the  scenario  of  "  Les  Fourberies  de  Scaramouche,"  upon 
which  we  are  told  the  fortunes  of  the  Binet  troupe  came  to 
be  soundly  established.  They  played  it  for  the  first  time  at 
Maure  in  the  following  week,  with  Andr6-Louis  —  who  was 
known  by  now  as  Scaramouche  to  all  the  company,  and  to 
the  public  alike  —  in  the  title-r61e.  If  he  had  acquitted 
himself  well  as  Figaro-Scaramouche,  he  excelled  himself  in 
the  new  piece,  the  scenario  of  which  would  appear  to  be 
very  much  the  better  of  the  two. 

After  Maure  came  Pipriac,  where  four  performances  were 
given,  two  of  each  of  the  scenarios  that  now  formed  the 
backbone  of  the  Binet  repertoire.  In  both  Scaramouche, 
who  was  beginning  to  find  himself,  materially  improved  his 
performances.  So  smoothly  now  did  the  two  pieces  run  that 
Scaramouche  actually  suggested  to  Binet  that  after  Fou- 
geray,  which  they  were  to  visit  in  the  following  week,  they 
should  tempt  fortune  in  a  real  theatre  in  the  important 
town  of  Redon.  The  notion  terrified  Binet  at  first,  but  com- 
ing to  think  of  it,  and  his  ambition  being  fanned  by  Andr£- 
Louis,  he  ended  by  allowing  himself  to  succumb  to  the 
temptation. 

It  seemed  to  Andr6-Louis  in  those  days  that  he  had  found 
his  real  m6tier,  and  not  only  was  he  beginning  to  like  it,  but 
actually  to  look  forward  to  a  career  as  actor-author  that 
might  indeed  lead  him  in  the  end  to  that  Mecca  of  all 
comedians,  the  Comedie  Franchise.  And  there  were  other 
possibilities.  From  the  writing  of  skeleton  scenarios  for 
improvisers,  he  might  presently  pass  to  writing  plays  of 


Climene  143 

dialogue,  plays  in  the  proper  sense  of  the  word,  after  the 
manner  of  Chenier,  Eglantine,  and  Beaumarchais. 

The  fact  that  he  dreamed  such  dreams  shows  us  how  very 
kindly  he  had  taken  to  the  profession  into  which  Chance 
and  M.  Binet  between  them  had  conspired  to  thrust  him. 
That  he  had  real  talent  both  as  author  and  as  actor  I  do  not 
doubt,  and  I  am  persuaded  that  had  things  fallen  out  dif- 
ferently he  would  have  won  for  himself  a  lasting  place 
among  French  dramatists,  and  thus  fully  have  realized  that 
dream  of  his. 

Now,  dream  though  it  was,  he  did  not  neglect  the 
practical  side  of  it. 

"You  realize,"  he  told  M.  Binet,  "that  I  have  it  in  my 
power  to  make  your  fortune  for  you." 

He  and  Binet  were  sitting  alone  together  in  the  parlour 
of  the  inn  at  Pipriac,  drinking  a  very  excellent  bottle  of 
Volnay.  It  was  on  the  night  after  the  fourth  and  last  per- 
formance there  of  "Les  Fourberies."  The  business  in 
Pipriac  had  been  as  excellent  as  in  Maure  and  Guichen. 
You  will  have  gathered  this  from  the  fact  that  they  drank 
Volnay. 

"I  will  concede  it,  my  dear  Scaramouche,  so  that  I  may 
hear  the  sequel." 

"  I  am  disposed  to  exercise  this  power  if  the  inducement 
is  sufficient.  You  will  realize  that  for  fifteen  livres  a  month 
a  man  does  not  sell  such  exceptional  gifts  as  mine." 

"There  is  an  alternative,"  said  M.  Binet,  darkly. 

"There  is  no  alternative.   Don't  be  a  fool,  Binet." 

Binet  sat  up  as  if  he  had  been  prodded.  Members  of  his 
company  did  not  take  this  tone  of  direct  rebuke  with  him. 

"Anyway,  I  make  you  a  present  of  it,"  Scaramouche 
pursued,  airily.  "Exercise  it  if  you  please.  Step  outside 
and  inform  the  police  that  they  can  lay  hands  upon  one 
Andre-Louis  Moreau.  But  that  will  be  the  end  of  your  fine 
dreams  of  going  to  Redon,  and  for  the  first  time  in  your  life 
playing  in  a  real  theatre.  Without  me,  you  can't  do  it,  and 
you  know  it ;  and  I  am  not  going  to  Redon  or  anywhere  else, 


144  The  Buskin 


in  fact  I  am  not  even  going  to  Fougeray,  until  we  have  an 
equitable  arrangement." 

"But  what  heat!"  complained  Binet,  "and  all  for  what? 
Why  must  you  assume  that  I  have  the  soul  of  a  usurer? 
When  our  little  arrangement  was  made,  I  had  no  idea  — 
how  could  I  ?  —  that  you  would  prove  as  valuable  to  me  as 
you  are?  You  had  but  to  remind  me,  my  dear  Scaramouche. 
I  am  a  just  man.  As  from  to-day  you  shall  have  thirty  livres 
a  month.  See,  I  double  it  at  once.  I  am  a  generous  man." 

"But  you  are  not  ambitious.  Now  listen  to  me,  a 
moment." 

And  he  proceeded  to  unfold  a  scheme  that  filled  Binet 
with  a  paralyzing  terror. 

"After  Redon,  Nantes,"  he  said.  "Nantes  and  the 
Theatre  Feydau." 

M.  Binet  choked  in  the  act  of  drinking.  The  Th6itre 
Feydau  was  a  sort  of  provincial  Comedie  Frangaise.  The 
great  Fleury  had  played  there  to  an  audience  as  critical  as 
any  in  France.  The  very  thought  of  R6don,  cherished  as  it 
had  come  to  be  by  M.  Binet,  gave  him  at  moments  a  cramp 
in  the  stomach,  so  dangerously  ambitious  did  it  seem  to 
him.  And  Redon  was  a  puppet-show  by  comparison  with 
Nantes.  Yet  this  raw  lad  whom  he  had  picked  up  by  chance 
three  weeks  ago,  and  who  in  that  time  had  blossomed  from 
a  country  attorney  into  author  and  actor,  could  talk  of 
Nantes  and  the  Theatre  Feydau  without  changing  colour. 

"But  why  not  Paris  and  the  Comedie  Franchise?"  won- 
dered M.  Binet,  with  sarcasm,  when  at  last  he  had  got  his 
breath. 

"That  may  come  later,"  says  impudence. 

"Eh?  You've  been  drinking,  my  friend." 

But  Andr6-Louis  detailed  the  plan  that  had  been  forming 
in  his  mind.  Fougeray  should  be  a  training-ground  for 
Reclon,  and  Redon  should  be  a  training-ground  for  Nantes. 
They  would  stay  in  Redon  as  long  as  R£don  would  pay 
adequately  to  come  and  see  them,  working  hard  to  perfect 
themselves  the  while.  They  would  add  three  or  four  new 


Climene  145 

players  of  talent  to  the  company;  he  would  write  three  or 
four  fresh  scenarios,  and  these  should  be  tested  and  per- 
fected until  the  troupe  was  in  possession  of  at  least  half  a 
dozen  plays  upon  which  they  could  depend ;  they  would  lay 
out  a  portion  of  their  profits  on  better  dresses  and  better 
scenery,  and  finally  in  a  couple  of  months'  time,  if  all  went 
well,  they  should  be  ready  to  make  their  real  bid  for  fortune 
at  Nantes.  It  was  quite  true  that  distinction  was  usually 
demanded  of  the  companies  appearing  at  the  Feydau,  but 
on  the  other  hand  Nantes  had  not  seen  a  troupe  of  impro- 
visers  for  a  generation  and  longer.  They  would  be  supply- 
ing a  novelty  to  which  all  Nantes  should  flock  provided 
that  the  work  were  really  well  done,  and  Scaramouche 
undertook  —  pledged  himself  —  that  if  matters  were  left 
in  his  own  hands,  his  projected  revival  of  the  Commedia 
dell"  Arte  in  all  its  glories  would  exceed  whatever  expecta- 
tions the  public  of  Nantes  might  bring  to  the  theatre. 

"We'll  talk  of  Paris  after  Nantes,"  he  finished,  supremely 
matter-of-fact,  "just  as  we  will  definitely  decide  on  Nantes 
after  Redon." 

The  persuasiveness  that  could  sway  a  mob  ended  by 
sweeping  M.  Binet  off  his  feet.  The  prospect  which  Scara- 
mouche unfolded,  if  terrifying,  was  also  intoxicating,  and 
as  Scaramouche  delivered  a  crushing  answer  to  each  weak- 
ening objection  in  a  measure  as  it  was  advanced,  Binet 
ended  by  promising  to  think  the  matter  over. 

"R£don  will  point  the  way,"  said  Andr£-Louis,  "and  I 
don't  doubt  which  way  R£don  will  point." 

Thus  the  great  adventure  of  Redon  dwindled  to  insig- 
nificance. Instead  of  a  terrifying  undertaking  in  itself,  it 
became  merely  a  rehearsal  for  something  greater.  In  his 
momentary  exaltation  Binet  proposed  another  bottle  of 
Volnay.  Scaramouche  waited  until  the  cork  was  drawn 
before  he  continued. 

"The  thing  remains  possible,"  said  he  then,  holding  his 
glass  to  the  light,  and  speaking  casually,  "as  long  as  I  am 
with  you." 


146  The  Buskin 


"Agreed,  my  dear  Scaramouche,  agreed.  Our  chance 
meeting  was  a  fortunate  thing  for  both  of  us." 

"For  both  of  us,"  said  Scaramouche,  with  stress.  "That 
is  as  I  would  have  it.  So  that  I  do  not  think  you  will  sur- 
render me  just  yet  to  the  police." 

"As  if  I  could  think  of  such  a  thing!  My  dear  Scara- 
mouche, you  amuse  yourself.  I  beg  that  you  will  never, 
never  allude  to  that  little  joke  of  mine  again." 

"It  is  forgotten,"  said  Andre-Louis.  "And  now  for  the 
remainder  of  my  proposal.  If  I  am  to  become  the  architect 
of  your  fortunes,  if  I  am  to  build  them  as  I  have  planned 
them,  I  must  also  and  in  the  same  degree  become  the 
architect  of  my  own." 

"In  the  same  degree?"  M.  Binet  frowned. 

"In  the  same  degree.  From  to-day,  if  you  please,  we  will 
conduct  the  affairs  of  this  company  in  a  proper  manner,  and 
we  will  keep  account-books." 

"I  am  an  artist,"  said  M.  Binet,  with  pride.  "I  am  not 
a  merchant." 

"There  is  a  business  side  to  your  art,  and  that  shall  be 
conducted  in  the  business  manner.  I  have  thought  it  all 
out  for  you.  You  shall  not  be  troubled  with  details  that 
might  hinder  the  due  exercise  of  your  art.  All  that  you  have 
to  do  is  to  say  yes  or  no  to  my  proposal." 

"Ah?  And  the  proposal?" 

"Is  that  you  constitute  me  your  partner,  with  an  equal 
share  in  the  profits  of  your  company." 

Pantaloon's  great  countenance  grew  pale,  his  little  eyes 
widened  to  their  fullest  extent  as  he  conned  the  face  of  his 
companion.  Then  he  exploded. 

"You  are  mad,  of  course,  to  make  me  a  proposal  so 
monstrous." 

"It  has  its  injustices,  I  admit.  But  I  have  provided  for 
them.  It  would  not,  for  instance,  be  fair  that  in  addition  to 
all  that  I  am  proposing  to  do  for  you,  I  should  also  play 
Scaramouche  and  write  your  scenarios  without  any  reward 
outside  of  the  half-profit  which  would  come  to  me  as  a 


Climene  147 

partner.  Thus  before  the  profits  come  to  be  divided,  there 
is  a  salary  to  be  paid  me  as  actor,  and  a  small  sum  for  each 
scenario  with  which  I  provide  the  company;  that  is  a 
matter  for  mutual  agreement.  Similarly,  you  shall  be  paid 
a  salary  as  Pantaloon.  After  those  expenses  are  cleared  up, 
as  well  as  all  the  other  salaries  and  disbursements,  the  resi- 
due is  the  profit  to  be  divided  equally  between  us." 

It  was  not,  as  you  can  imagine,  a  proposal  that  M.  Binet 
would  swallow  at  a  draught.  He  began  with  a  point-blank 
refusal  to  consider  it. 

"In  that  case,  my  friend,"  said  Scaramouche,  "we  part 
company  at  once.  To-morrow  I  shall  bid  you  a  reluctant 
farewell." 

Binet  fell  to  raging.  He  spoke  of  ingratitude  in  feeling 
terms;  he  even  permitted  himself  another  sly  allusion  to 
that  little  jest  of  his  concerning  the  police,  which  he  had 
promised  never  again  to  mention. 

"As  to  that,  you  may  do  as  you  please.  Play  the  in- 
former, by  all  means.  But  consider  that  you  will  just  as 
definitely  be  deprived  of  my  services,  and  that  without  me 
you  are  nothing  —  as  you  were  before  I  joined  your  com- 
pany." 

M.  Binet  did  not  care  what  the  consequences  might  be. 
A  fig  for  the  consequences !  He  would  teach  this  impudent 
young  country  attorney  that  M.  Binet  was  not  the  man  to 
be  imposed  upon. 

Scaramouche  rose.  "Very  well,"  said  he,  between  in- 
difference and  resignation.  "As  you  wish.  But  before  you 
act,  sleep  on  the  matter.  In  the  cold  light  of  morning  you 
may  see  our  two  proposals  in  their  proper  proportions. 
Mine  spells  fortune  for  both  of  us.  Yours  spells  ruin  for  both 
of  us.  Good-night,  M-  Binet.  Heaven  help  you  to  a  wise 
decision." 

The  decision  to  which  M.  Binet  finally  came  was,  natu- 
rally, the  only  one  possible  in  the  face  of  so  firm  a  resolve 
as  that  of  Andr6-Louis,  who  held  the  trumps.  Of  course 
there  were  further  discussions,  before  all  was  settled,  and 


148  The  Buskin 


M.  Binet  was  brought  to  an  agreement  only  after  an  in- 
finity of  haggling  surprising  in  one  who  was  an  artist  and 
not  a  man  of  business.  One  or  two  concessions  were  made  by 
Andre-Louis;  he  consented,  for  instance,  to  waive  his  claim 
to  be  paid  for  scenarios,  and  he  also  consented  that  M. 
Binet  should  appoint  himself  a  salary  that  was  out  of  all 
proportion  to  his  deserts. 

Thus  in  the  end  the  matter  was  settled,  and  the  an- 
nouncement duly  made  to  the  assembled  company.  There 
were,  of  course,  jealousies  and  resentments.  But  these  were 
not  deep-seated,  and  they  were  readily  swallowed  when  it 
was  discovered  that  under  the  new  arrangement  the  lot  of 
the  entire  company  was  to  be  materially  improved  from  the 
point  of  view  of  salaries.  This  was  a  matter  that  had  met 
with  considerable  opposition  from  M.  Binet.  But  the  irre- 
sistible Scaramouche  swept  away  all  objections. 

"If  we  are  to  play  at  the  Feydau,  you  want  a  company 
of  self-respecting  comedians,  and  not  a  pack  of  cringing 
starvelings.  The  better  we  pay  them  in  reason,  the  more 
they  will  earn  for  us." 

Thus  was  conquered  the  company's  resentment  of  this  too 
swift  promotion  of  its  latest  recruit.  Cheerfully  now  — 
with  one  exception  —  they  accepted  the  dominance  of 
Scaramouche,  a  dominance  soon  to  be  so  firmly  established 
that  M.  Binet  himself  came  under  it. 

The  one  exception  was  Climene.  Her  failure  to  bring  to 
heel  this  interesting  young  stranger,  who  had  almost  liter- 
ally dropped  into  their  midst  that  morning  outside  Guichen, 
had  begotten  in  her  a  malice  which  his  persistent  ignoring 
of  her  had  been  steadily  inflaming.  She  had  remonstrated 
with  her  father  when  the  new  partnership  was  first  formed. 
She  had  lost  her  temper  with  him,  and  called  him  a  fool, 
whereupon  M.  Binet  —  in  Pantaloon's  best  manner  —  had 
lost  his  temper  in  his  turn  and  boxed  her  ears.  She  piled  it 
up  to  the  account  of  Scaramouche,  and  spied  her  oppor- 
tunity to  pay  off  some  of  that  ever-increasing  score.  But 
opportunities  were  few.  Scaramouche  was  too  occupied 


Climbne  149 

just  then.  During  the  week  of  preparation  at  Fougeray,  he 
was  hardly  seen  save  at  the  performances,  whilst  when  once 
they  were  at  R£don,  he  came  and  went  like  the  wind  between 
the  theatre  and  the  inn. 

The  R6don  experiment  had  justified  itself  from  the  first. 
Stimulated  and  encouraged  by  this,  Andr6-Louis  worked 
day  and  night  during  the  month  that  they  spent  in  that 
busy  little  town.  The  moment  had  been  well  chosen,  for 
the  trade  in  chestnuts  of  which  R£don  is  the  centre  was  just 
then  at  its  height.  And  every  afternoon  the  little  theatre 
was  packed  with  spectators.  The  fame  of  the  troupe  had 
gone  forth,  borne  by  the  chestnut-growers  of  the  district, 
who  were  bringing  their  wares  to  R£don  market,  and  the 
audiences  were  made  up  of  people  from  the  surrounding 
country,  and  from  neighbouring  villages  as  far  out  as 
Allaire,  Saint-Perrieux  and  Saint-Nicholas.  To  keep  the 
business  from  slackening,  Andr6-Louis  prepared  a  new 
scenario  every  week.  He  wrote  three  in  addition  to  those 
two  with  which  he  had  already  supplied  the  company ;  these 
were  "The  Marriage  of  Pantaloon,"  "The  Shy  Lover,"  and 
"The  Terrible  Captain."  Of  these  the  last  was  the  greatest 
success.  It  was  based  upon  the  "  Miles  Gloriosus"  of  Plautus, 
with  great  opportunities  for  Rhodomont,  and  a  good  part 
for  Scaramouche  as  the  roaring  captain's  sly  lieutenant.  Its 
success  was  largely  due  to  the  fact  that  Andr6-Louis  ampli- 
fied the  scenario  to  the  extent  of  indicating  very  fully  in 
places  the  lines  which  the  dialogue  should  follow,  whilst 
here"  and  there  he  had  gone  so  far  as  to  supply  some  of  the 
actual  dialogue  to  be  spoken,  without,  however,  making  it 
obligatory  upon  the  actors  to  keep  to  the  letter  of  it. 

And  meanwhile  as  the  business  prospered,  he  became  busy 
with  tailors,  improving  the  wardrobe  of  the  company,  which 
was  sorely  in  need  of  improvement.  He  ran  to  earth  a 
couple  of  needy  artists,  lured  them  into  the  company  to 
play  small  parts  —  apothecaries  and  notaries  —  and  set 
them  to  beguile  their  leisure  in  painting  new  scenery,  so  as 
to  be  ready  for  what  he  called  the  conquest  of  Nantes, 


150  The  Buskin 


which  was  to  come  in  the  new  year.  Never  in  his  life  had  he 
worked  so  hard;  never  in  his  life  had  he  worked  at  all  by 
comparison  with  his  activities  now.  His  fund  of  energy  and 
enthusiasm  was  inexhaustible,  like  that  of  his  good  humour. 
He  came  and  went,  acted,  wrote,  conceived,  directed, 
planned,  and  executed,  what  time  M.  Binet  took  his  ease  at 
last  in  comparative  affluence,  drank  Burgundy  every  night, 
ate  white  bread  and  other  delicacies,  and  began  to  con- 
gratulate himself  upon  his  astuteness  in  having  made  this 
industrious,  tireless  fellow  his  partner.  Having  discovered 
how  idle  had  been  his  fears  of  performing  at  R£don,  he  now 
began  to  dismiss  the  terrors  with  which  the  notion  of  Nantes 
had  haunted  him. 

And  his  happiness  was  reflected  throughout  the  ranks  of 
his  company,  with  the  single  exception  always  of  Climene. 
She  had  ceased  to  sneer  at  Scaramouche,  having  realized 
at  last  that  her  sneers  left  him  untouched  and  recoiled  upon 
herself.  Thus  her  almost  indefinable  resentment  of  him 
was  increased  by  being  stifled,  until,  at  all  costs,  an  outlet 
for  it  must  be  found. 

One  day  she  threw  herself  in  his  way  as  he  was  leaving 
the  theatre  after  the  performance.  The  others  had  already 
gone,  and  she  had  returned  upon  pretence  of  having  for- 
gotten something. 

"Will  you  tell  me  what  I  have  done  to  you?"  she  asked 
him,  point-blank. 

"Done  to  me,  mademoiselle?"  He  did  not  understand. 

She  made  a  gesture  of  impatience.  "Why  do  you  hate 
me?" 

"Hate  you,  mademoiselle?  I  do  not  hate  anybody.  It  is 
the  most  stupid  of  all  the  emotions.  I  have  never  hated  — 
not  even  my  enemies." 

"What  Christian  resignation!" 

"As  for  hating  you,  of  all  people!  Why  ...  I  consider 
you  adorable.  I  envy  L6andre  every  day  of  my  life.  I 
have  seriously  thought  of  setting  him  to  play  Scaramouche, 
and  playing  lovers  myself." 


Climene  151 

"I  don't  think  you  would  be  a  success,"  said  she. 

"That  is  the  only  consideration  that  restrains  me.  And 
yet,  given  the  inspiration  that  is  given  L6andre,  it  is  possible 
that  I  might  be  convincing." 

"Why,  what  inspiration  do  you  mean?" 

"The  inspiration  of  playing  to  so  adorable  a  Climene." 

Her  lazy  eyes  were  now  alert  to  search  that  lean  face  of 
his. 

"You  are  laughing  at  me,"  said  she,  and  swept  past  him 
into  the  theatre  on  her  pretended  quest.  There  was  nothing 
to  be  done  with  such  a  fellow.  He  was  utterly  without 
feeling.  He  was  not  a  man  at  all. 

Yet  when  she  came  forth  again  at  the  end  of  some  five 
•minutes,  she  found  him  still  lingering  at  the  door. 

"Not  gone  yet?"  she  asked  him,  superciliously. 

"I  was  waiting  for  you,  mademoiselle.  You  will  be 
walking  to  the  inn.  If  I  might  escort  you  ..." 

"But  what  gallantry!  What  condescension!" 

"Perhaps  you  would  prefer  that  I  did  not?" 

"How  could  I  prefer  that,  M.  Scaramouche?  Besides, 
we  are  both  going  the  same  way,  and  the  streets  are  com- 
mon to  all.  It  is  that  I  am  overwhelmed  by  the  unusual 
honour." 

He  looked  into  her  piquant  little  face,  and  noted  how  ob- 
scured it  was  by  its  cloud  of  dignity.  He  laughed. 

"Perhaps  I  feared  that  the  honour  was  not  sought." 

"Ah,  now  I  understand,"  she  cried.  "It  is  for  me  to  seek 
these  honours.  I  am  to  woo  a  man  before  he  will  pay  me 
the  homage  of  civility.  It  must  be  so,  since  you,  who 
clearly  know  everything,  have  said  so.  It  remains  for  me 
to  beg  your  pardon  for  my  ignorance." 

"It  amuses  you  to  be  cruel,"  said  Scaramouche.  "No 
matter.  Shall  we  walk?" 

They  set  out  together,  stepping  briskly  to  warm  their 
blood  against  the  wintry  evening  air.  Awhile  they  went  in 
silence,  yet  each  furtively  observing  the  other. 

"And  so,  you  find  me  cruel?"  she  challenged  him  at 


152  The  Buskin 


length,  thereby  betraying  the  fact  that  the  accusation  had 
struck  home. 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  half  smile.  "Will  you  deny  it?" 

"You  are  the  first  man  that  ever  accused  me  of  that." 

"I  dare  not  suppose  myself  the  first  man  to  whom  you 
have  been  cruel.  That  were  an  assumption  too  flattering  to 
myself.  I  must  prefer  to  think  that  the  others  suffered  in 
silence." 

"Mon  Dieu!  Have  you  suffered?"  She  was  between 
seriousness  and  raillery. 

"I  place  the  confession  as  an  offering  on  the  altar  of  your 
vanity." 

"I  should  never  have  suspected  it." 

"How  could  you?  Am  I  not  what  your  father  calls  a 
natural  actor?  I  was  an  actor  long  before  I  became  Scara- 
mouche.  Therefore  I  have  laughed.  I  often  do  when  I  am 
hurt.  When  you  were  pleased  to  be  disdainful,  I  acted 
disdain  in  my  turn." 

"You  acted  very  well,"  said  she,  without  reflecting. 

"Of  course.   I  am  an  excellent  actor." 

"And  why  this  sudden  change?" 

"In  response  to  the  change  in  you.  You  have  grown 
weary  of  your  part  of  cruel  madam  —  a  dull  part,  believe 
me,  and  unworthy  of  your  talents.  Were  I  a  woman  and 
had  I  your  loveliness  and  your  grace,  Climene,  I  should 
disdain  to  use  them  as  weapons  of  offence." 

"Loveliness  and  grace!"  she  echoed,  feigning  amused 
surprise.  But  the  vain  baggage  was  mollified.  "When  was 
it  that  you  discovered  this  beauty  and  this  grace,  M.  Scara- 
mouche?" 

He  looked  at  her  a  moment,  considering  the  sprightly 
beauty  of  her,  the  adorable  femininity  that  from  the  first  had 
so  irresistibly  attracted  him. 

"One  morning  when  I  beheld  you  rehearsing  a  love- 
scene  with  L6andre." 

He  caught  the  surprise  that  leapt  to  her  eyes,  before  she 
veiled  them  under  drooping  lids  from  his  too  questing  gaze. 


Climdne  153 

"Why,  that  was  the  first  time  you  saw  me." 

"I  had  no  earlier  occasion  to  remark  your  charms." 

"You  ask  me  to  believe  too  much,"  said  she,  but  her 
tone  was  softer  than  he  had  ever  known  it  yet. 

"Then  you'll  refuse  to  believe  me  if  I  confess  that  it  was 
this  grace  and  beauty  that  determined  my  destiny  that  day 
by  urging  me  to  join  your  father's  troupe." 

At  that  she  became  a  little  out  of  breath.  There  was  no 
longer  any  question  of  finding  an  outlet  for  resentment.  Re- 
sentment was  all  forgotten. 

"But  why?  With  what  object?" 

"With  the  object  of  asking  you  one  day  to  be  my  wife." 

She  halted  under  the  shock  of  that,  and  swung  round  to 
face  him.  Her  glance  met  his  own  without  shyness  now; 
there  was  a  hardening  glitter  in  her  eyes,  a  faint  stir  of 
colour  in  her  cheeks.  She  suspected  him  of  an  unpardonable 
mockery. 

"You  go  very  fast,  don't  you?"  she  asked  him,  with  heat. 

"  I  do.  Have  n't  you  observed  it?  I  am  a  man  of  sudden 
impulses.  See  what  I  have  made  of  the  Binet  troupe  in  less 
than  a  couple  of  months.  Another  might  have  laboured  for 
a  year  and  not  achieved  the  half  of  it.  Shall  I  be  slower  in 
love  than  in  work?  Would  it  be  reasonable  to  expect  it?  I 
have  curbed  and  repressed  myself  not  to  scare  you  by  pre- 
cipitancy. In  that  I  have  done  violence  to  my  feelings,  and 
more  than  all  in  using  the  same  cold  aloofness  with  which 
you  chose  to  treatfme.  I  have  waited  —  oh!  so  patiently  — 
until  you  should  tire  of  that  mood  of  cruelty." 

"You  are  an  amazing  man,"  said  she,  quite  colourlessly. 

"I  am,"  he  agreed  with  her.  "It  is  only  the  conviction 
that  I  am  not  commonplace  that  has  permitted  me  to  hope 
as  I  have  hoped." 

Mechanically,  and  as  if  by  tacit  consent,  they  resumed 
their  walk. 

"And  I  ask  you  to  observe,"  he  said,  "when  you  com- 
plain that  I  go  very  fast,  that,  after  all,  I  have  so  far  asked 
you  for  nothing." 


154  The  Buskin 


"How?"  quoth  she,  frowning. 

"I  have  merely  told  you  of  my  hopes.  I  am  not  so  rash 
as  to  ask  at  once  whether  I  may  realize  them." 

"My  faith,  but  that  is  prudent,"  said  she,  tartly. 

"Of  course." 

It  was  his  self-possession  that  exasperated  her;  for  after 
that  she  walked  the  short  remainder  of  the  way  in  silence, 
and  so,  for  the  moment,  the  matter  was  left  just  there. 

But  that  night,  after  they  had  supped,  it  chanced  that 
when  Climene  was  about  to  retire,  he  and  she  were  alone 
together  in  the  room  abovestairs  that  her  father  kept  ex- 
clusively for  his  company.  The  Binet  Troupe,  you  see,  was 
rising  in  the  world. 

As  Climene  now  rose  to  withdraw  for  the  night,  Scara- 
mouche  rose  with  her  to  light  her  candle.  Holding  it  in  her 
left  hand,  she  offered  him  her  right,  a  long,  tapering,  white 
hand  at  the  end  of  a  softly  rounded  arm  that  was  bare  to 
the  elbow. 

"Good-night,  Scaramouche,"  she  said,  but  so  softly,  so 
tenderly,  that  he  caught  his  breath,  and  stood  conning  her, 
his  dark  eyes  aglow. 

Thus  a  moment,  then  he  took  the  tips  of  her  fingers  in  his 
grasp,  and  bowing  over  the  hand,  pressed  his  lips  upon  it. 
Then  he  looked  at  her  again.  The  intense  femininity  of  her 
lured  him  on,  invited  him,  surrendered  to  him.  Her  face 
was  pale,  there  was  a  glitter  in  her  eyes,  a  curious  smile  upon 
her  parted  lips,  and  under  its  fichu-menteur  her  bosom  rose 
and  fell  to  complete  the  betrayal  of  her. 

By  the  hand  he  continued  to  hold,  he  drew  her  towards 
him.  She  came  unresisting.  He  took  the  candle  from  her, 
and  set  it  down  on  the  sideboard  by  which  she  stood.  The 
next  moment  her  slight,  lithe  body  was  in  his  arms,  and  he 
was  kissing  her,  murmuring  her  name  as  if  it  were  a  prayer. 

"Am  I  cruel  now?"  she  asked  him,  panting.  He  kissed 
her  again  for  only  answer.  "You  made  me  cruel  because 
you  would  not  see,"  she  told  him  next  in  a  whisper. 

And  then  the  door  opened,  and  M.  Binet  came  in  to  have 


Climene  155 

his  paternal  eyes  regaled  by  this  highly  indecorous  be- 
haviour of  his  daughter. 

He  stood  at  gaze,  whilst  they  quite  leisurely,  and  in  a  self- 
possession  too  complete  to  be  natural,  detached  each  from 
the  other. 

"And  what  may  be  the  meaning  of  this?"  demanded  M. 
Binet,  bewildered  and  profoundly  shocked. 

"Does  it  require  explaining?"  asked  Scaramouche. 
"Doesn't  it  speak  for  itself  —  eloquently?  It  means  that 
Climene  and  I  have  taken  it  into  our  heads  to  be  married." 

"And  does  n't  it  matter  what  I  may  take  into  my  head?" 

"Of  course.  But  you  could  have  neither  the  bad  taste  nor 
the  bad  heart  to  offer  any  obstacle." 

"You  take  that  for  granted?  Aye,  that  is  your  way,  to  be 
sure  —  to  take  things  for  granted.  But  my  daughter  is  not 
to  be  taken  for  granted.  I  have  very  definite  views  for  my 
daughter.  You  have  done  an  unworthy  thing,  Scaramouche. 
You  have  betrayed  my  trust  in  you.  I  am  very  angry  with 
you." 

He  rolled  forward  with  his  ponderous  yet  curiously  noise- 
less gait.  Scaramouche  turned  to  her,  smiling,  and  handed 
her  the  candle. 

"If  you  will  leave  us,  Climene,  I  will  ask  your  hand  of 
your  father  in  proper  form." 

She  vanished,  a  little  fluttered,  lovelier  than  ever  in  her 
mixture  of  confusion  and  timidity.  Scaramouche  closed  the 
door  and  faced  the  enraged  M.  Binet,  who  had  flung  himself 
into  an  armchair  at  the  head  of  the  short  table,  faced  him 
with  the  avowed  purpose  of  asking  for  Climene's  hand  in 
proper  form.  And  this  was  how  he  did  it: 

"Father-in-law,"  said  he,  "I  congratulate  you.  This  will 
certainly  mean  the  Com£die  Franchise  for  Climene,  and 
that  before  long,  and  you  shall  shine  in  the  glory  she  will 
reflect.  As  the  father  of  Madame  Scaramouche  you  may 
yet  be  famous." 

Binet,  his  face  slowly  empurpling,  glared  at  him  in  speech- 
less stupefaction.  His  rage  was  the  more  utter  from  his 


156  The  Buskin 


humiliating  conviction  that  whatever  he  might  say  or  do, 
this  irresistible  fellow  would  bend  him  to  his  will.  At  last 
speech  came  to  him. 

"You're  a  damned  corsair,"  he  cried,  thickly,  banging 
his  ham-like  fist  upon  the  table.  "A  corsair!  First  you  sail 
in  and  plunder  me  of  half  my  legitimate  gains ;  and  now  you 
want  to  carry  off  my  daughter.  But  I  '11  be  damned  if  I  '11 
give  her  to  a  graceless,  nameless  scoundrel  like  you,  for 
whom  the  gallows  are  waiting  already." 

Scaramouche  pulled  the  bell-rope,  not  at  all  discomposed. 
He  smiled.  There  was  a  flush  on  his  cheeks  and  a  gleam  in 
his  eyes.  He  was  very  pleased  with  the  world  that  night. 
He  really  owed  a  great  debt  to  M.  de  Lesdiguieres. 

"Binet,"  said  he,  "forget  for  once  that  you  are  Panta- 
loon, and  behave  as  a  nice,  amiable  father-in-law  should 
behave  when  he  has  secured  a  son-in-law  of  exceptionable 
merits.  We  are  going  to  have  a  bottle  of  Burgundy  at  my 
expense,  and  it  shall  be  the  best  bottle  of  Burgundy  to  be 
found  in  Redon.  Compose  yourself  to  do  fitting  honour  to 
it.  Excitations  of  the  bile  invariably  impair  the  fine  sensi- 
tiveness of  the  palate." 


CHAPTER  VII 
THE  CONQUEST  OF  NANTES 

THE  Binet  Troupe  opened  in  Nantes  —  as  you  may  discover 
in  surviving  copies  of  the  "Courrier  Nantais"  —  on  the 
Feast  of  the  Purification  with  "Les  Fourberies  de  Scara- 
mouche."  But  they  did  not  come  to  Nantes  as  hitherto 
they  had  gone  to  little  country  villages  and  townships,  un- 
heralded and  depending  entirely  upon  the  parade  of  their 
entrance  to  attract  attention  to  themselves.  Andre-Louis 
had  borrowed  from  the  business  methods  of  the  Comedie 
Franchise.  Carrying  matters  with  a  high  hand  entirely  in 
his  own  fashion,  he  had  ordered  at  R6don  the  printing  of 
playbills,  and  four  days  before  the  company's  descent  upon 
Nantes,  these  bills  were  pasted  outside  the  Theatre  Feydau 
and  elsewhere  about  the  town,  and  had  attracted  —  being 
still  sufficiently  unusual  announcements  at  the  time  —  con- 
siderable attention.  He  had  entrusted  the  matter  to  one 
of  the  company's  latest  recruits,  an  intelligent  young  man 
named  Basque,  sending  him  on  ahead  of  the  company  for 
the  purpose. 

You  may  see  for  yourself  one  of  these  playbills  in  the 
Carnavalet  Museum.  It  details  the  players  by  their  stage 
names  only,  with  the  exception  of  M.  Binet  and  his  daugh- 
ter, and  leaving  out  of  account  that  he  who  plays  Trivelin 
in  one  piece  appears  as  Tabarin  in  another,  it  makes  the 
company  appear  to  be  at  least  half  as  numerous  again  as  it 
really  was.  It  announces  that  they  will  open  with  "Les 
Fourberies  de  Scaramouche,"  to  be  followed  by  five  other 
plays  of  which  it  gives  the  titles,  and  by  others  not  named, 
which  shall  also  be  added  should  the  patronage  to  be  re- 
ceived in  the  distinguished  and  enlightened  city  of  Nantes 
encourage  the  Binet  Troupe  to  prolong  its  sojourn  at  the 
Theatre  Feydau.  It  lays  great  stress  upon  the  fact  that  this 


158  The  Buskin 


is  a  company  of  improvisers  in  the  old  Italian  manner,  the 
like  of  which  has  not  been  seen  in  France  for  half  a  century, 
and  it  exhorts  the  public  of  Nantes  not  to  miss  this  oppor- 
tunity of  witnessing  these  distinguished  mimes  who  are  re- 
viving for  them  the  glories  of  the  Comedie  de  1'Art.  Their 
visit  to  Nantes  —  the  announcement  proceeds  —  is  pre- 
liminary to  their  visit  to  Paris,  where  they  intend  to  throw 
down  the  glove  to  the  actors  of  the  Comedie  Franchise,  and 
to  show  the  world  how  superior  is  the  art  of  the  improviser 
to  that  of  the  actor  who  depends  upon  an  author  for  what 
he  shall  say,  and  who  consequently  says  always  the  same 
thing  every  time  that  he  plays  in  the  same  piece. 

It  is  an  audacious  bill,  and  its  audacity  had  scared 
M.  Binet  out  of  the  little  sense  left  him  by  the  Burgundy 
which  in  these  days  he  could  afford  to  abuse.  He  had  offered 
the  most  vehement  opposition.  Part  of  this  Andre-Louis 
had  swept  aside;  part  he  had  disregarded. 

"I  admit  that  it  is  audacious,"  said  Scaramouche.  "But 
at  your  time  of  life  you  should  have  learnt  that  in  this  world 
nothing  succeeds  like  audacity." 

"I  forbid  it;  I  absolutely  forbid  it,"  M.  Binet  insisted. 

"I  knew  you  would.  Just  as  I  know  that  you'll  be  very 
grateful  to  me  presently  for  not  obeying  you." 

"You  are  inviting  a  catastrophe." 

"I  am  inviting  fortune.  The  worst  catastrophe  that  can 
overtake  you  is  to  be  back  in  the  market-halls  of  the  country 
villages  from  which  I  rescued  you.  I'll  have  you  in  Paris 
yet  in  spite  of  yourself.  Leave  this  to  me." 

And  he  went  out  to  attend  to  the  printing.  Nor  did  his 
preparations  end  there.  He  wrote  a  piquant  article  on  the 
glories  of  the  Comedie  de  1'Art,  and  its  resurrection  by  the 
improvising  troupe  of  the  great  mime  Florimond  Binet. 
Binet's  name  was  not  Florimond;  it  was  just  Pierre.  But 
Andre-Louis  had  a  great  sense  of  the  theatre.  That  article 
was  an  amplification  of  the  stimulating  matter  contained  in 
the  playbills;  and  he  persuaded  Basque,  who  had  relations 
in  Nantes,  to  use  all  the  influence  he  could  command,  and 


The  Conquest  of  Nantes  159 

all  the  bribery  they  could  afford,  to  get  that  article  printed 
in  the  "Courrier  Nantais"  a  couple  of  days  before  the  ar- 
rival of  the  Binet  Troupe. 

Basque  had  succeeded,  and,  considering  the  undoubted 
literary  merits  and  intrinsic  interest  of  the  article,  this  is 
not  at  all  surprising. 

And  so  it  was  upon  an  already  expectant  city  that  Binet 
and  his  company  descended  in  that  first  week  of  February. 
M.  Binet  would  have  made  his  entrance  in  the  usual  man- 
ner —  a  full-dress  parade  with  banging  drums  and  crashing 
cymbals.  But  to  this  Andre-Louis  offered  the  most  relent- 
less opposition. 

"We  should  but  discover  our  poverty,"  said  he.  "In- 
stead, we  will  creep  into  the  city  unobserved,  and  leave 
ourselves  to  the  imagination  of  the  public." 

He  had  his  way,  of  course.  M.  Binet,  worn  already  with 
battling  against  the  strong  waters  of  this  young  man's  will, 
was  altogether  unequal  to  the  contest  now  that  he  found 
Climene  in  alliance  with  Scaramouche,  adding  her  insist- 
ence to  his,  and  joining  with  him  in  reprobation  of  her 
father's  sluggish  and  reactionary  wits.  Metaphorically, 
M.  Binet  threw  up  his  arms,  and  cursing  the  day  on  which 
he  had  taken  this  young  man  into  his  troupe,  he  allowed  the 
current  to  carry  him  whither  it  would.  He  was  persuaded 
that  he  would  be  drowned  in  the  end.  Meanwhile  he  would 
drown  his  vexation  in  Burgundy.  At  least  there  was  abun- 
dance of  Burgundy.  Never  in  his  life  had  he  found  Burgundy 
so  plentiful.  Perhaps  things  were  not  as  bad  as  he  imagined, 
after  all.  He  reflected  that,  when  all  was  said,  he  had  to 
thank  Scaramouche  for  the  Burgundy.  Whilst  fearing  the 
worst,  he  would  hope  for  the  best. 

And  it  was  very  much  the  worst  that  he  feared  as  he 
waited  in  the  wings  when  the  curtain  rose  on  that  first  per- 
formance of  theirs  at  the  Th6^tre  Feydau  to  a  house  that 
was  tolerably  filled  by  a  public  whose  curiosity  the  pre- 
liminary announcements  had  thoroughly  stimulated. 

Although  the  scenario  of   "Les  Fourberies  de  Scara- 


160  The  Buskin 


mouche"  has  not  apparently  survived,  yet  we  know  from 
Andr£-Louis'  "Confessions"  that  it  is  opened  by  Poli- 
chinelle  in  the  character  of  an  arrogant  and  fiercely  jealous 
lover  shown  in  the  act  of  beguiling  the  waiting-maid,  Colum- 
bine, to  play  the  spy  upon  her  mistress,  Climene.  Beginning 
with  cajolery,  but  failing  in  this  with  the  saucy  Columbine, 
who  likes  cajolers  to  be  at  least  attractive  and  to  pay  a 
due  deference  to  her  own  very  piquant  charms,  the  fierce 
humpbacked  scoundrel  passes  on  to  threats  of  the  terrible 
vengeance  he  will  wreak  upon  her  if  she  betrays  him  or 
neglects  to  obey  him  implicitly;  failing  here,  likewise,  he 
finally  has  recourse  to  bribery,  and  after  he  has  bled  him- 
self freely  to  the  very  expectant  Columbine,  he  succeeds 
by  these  means  in  obtaining  her  consent  to  spy  upon 
Climene,  and  to  report  to  him  upon  her  lady's  conduct. 

The  pair  played  the  scene  well  together,  stimulated,  per- 
haps, by  their  very  nervousness  at  finding  themselves  be- 
fore so  imposing  an  audience.  Polichinelle  was  everything 
that  is  fierce,  contemptuous,  and  insistent.  Columbine  was 
the  essence  of  pert  indifference  under  his  cajolery,  saucily 
mocking  under  his  threats,  and  finely  sly  in  extorting  the 
very  maximum  when  it  came  to  accepting  a  bribe.  Laughter 
rippled  through  the  audience  and  promised  well.  But 
M.  Binet,  standing  trembling  in  the  wings,  missed  the  great 
guffaws  of  the  rustic  spectators  to  whom  they  had  played 
hitherto,  and  his  fears  steadily  mounted. 

Then,  scarcely  has  Polichinelle  departed  by  the  door  than 
Scaramouche  bounds  in  through  the  window.  It  was  an 
effective  entrance,  usually  performed  with  a  broad  comic 
effect  that  set  the  people  in  a  roar.  Not  so  on  this  occasion. 
Meditating  in  bed  that  morning,  Scaramouche  had  decided 
to  present  himself  in  a  totally  different  aspect.  He  would 
cut  out  all  the  broad  play,  all  the  usual  clowning  which  had 
delighted  their  past  rude  audiences,  and  he  would  obtain 
his  effects  by  subtlety  instead.  He  would  present  a  slyly 
humorous  rogue,  restrained,  and  of  a  certain  dignity,  wear- 
ing a  countenance  of  complete  solemnity,  speaking  his  lines 


The  Conquest  of  Nantes  161 

drily,  as  if  unconscious  of  the  humour  with  which  he  in- 
tended to  invest  them.  Thus,  though  it  might  take  the 
audience  longer  to  understand  and  discover  him,  they  would 
like  him  all  the  better  in  the  end. 

True  to  that  resolve,  he  now  played  his  part  as  the  friend 
and  hired  ally  of  the  lovesick  L£andre,  on  whose  behalf 
he  came  for  news  of  Climene,  seizing  the  opportunity  to 
further  his  own  amour  with  Columbine  and  his  designs 
upon  the  money-bags  of  Pantaloon.  Also  he  had  taken 
certain  liberties  with  the  traditional  costume  of  Scara- 
mouche;  he  had  caused  the  black  doublet  and  breeches  to 
be  slashed  with  red,  and  the  doublet  to  be  cut  more  to  a 
peak,  £  la  Henri  III.  The  conventional  black  velvet  cap  he 
had  replaced  by  a  conical  hat  with  a  turned-up  brim,  and  a 
tuft  of  feathers  on  the  left,  and  he  had  discarded  the  guitar. 

M.  Binet  listened  desperately  for  the  roar  of  laughter 
that  usually  greeted  the  entrance  of  Scaramouche,  and  his 
dismay  increased  when  it  did  not  come.  And  then  he  be- 
came conscious  of  something  alarmingly  unusual  in  Scara- 
mouche's  manner.  The  sibilant  foreign  accent  was  there, 
but  none  of  the  broad  boisterousness  their  audiences  had 
loved. 

He  wrung  his  hands  in  despair.  "  It  is  all  over!"  he  said. 
"The  fellow  has  ruined  us!  It  serves  me  right  for  being  a 
fool,  and  allowing  him  to  take  control  of  everything!" 

But  he  was  profoundly  mistaken.  He  began  to  have  an 
inkling  of  this  when  presently  himself  he  took  the  stage, 
and  found  the  public  attentive,  remarked  a  grin  of  quiet 
appreciation  on  every  upturned  face.  It  was  not,  however, 
until  the  thunders  of  applause  greeted  the  fall  of  the  curtain 
on  the  first  act  that  he  felt  quite  sure  they  would  be  allowed 
to  escape  with  their  lives. 

Had  the  part  of  Pantaloon  in  "Les  Fourberies"  been 
other  than  that  of  a  blundering,  timid  old  idiot,  Binet  would 
have  ruined  it  by  his  apprehensions.  As  it  was,  those  very 
apprehensions,  magnifying  as  they  did  the  hesitancy  and 
bewilderment  that  were  the  essence  of  his  part,  contributed 


1 62  The  Buskin 


to  the  success.  And  a  success  it  proved  that  more  than  justi- 
fied all  the  heralding  of  which  Scaramouche  had  been  guilty. 

For  Scaramouche  himself  this  success  was  not  confined 
to  the  public.  At  the  end  of  the  play  a  great  reception 
awaited  him  from  his  companions  assembled  in  the  green- 
room of  the  theatre.  His  talent,  resource,  and  energy  had 
raised  them  in  a  few  weeks  from  a  pack  of  vagrant,  mounte- 
banks to  a  self-respecting  company  of  first-rate  players. 
They  acknowledged  it  generously  in  a  speech  entrusted  to 
Polichinelle,  adding  the  tribute  to  his  genius  that,  as  they 
had  conquered  Nantes,  so  would  they  conquer  the  world 
under  his  guidance. 

In  their  enthusiasm  they  were  a  little  neglectful  of  the 
feelings  of  M.  Binet.  Irritated  enough  had  he  been  already 
by  the  overriding  of  his  every  wish,  by  the  consciousness  of 
his  weakness  when  opposed  to  Scaramouche.  And  although 
he  had  suffered  the  gradual  process  of  usurpation  of  author- 
ity because  its  every  step  had  been  attended  by  his  own 
greater  profit,  deep  down  in  him  the  resentment  abode  to 
stifle  every  spark  of  that  gratitude  due  from  him  to  his 
partner.  To-night  his  nerves  had  been  on  the  rack,  and  he 
had  suffered  agonies  of  apprehension,  for  all  of  which  he 
blamed  Scaramouche  so  bitterly  that  not  even  the  ultimate 
success  —  almost  miraculous  when  all  the  elements  are 
considered  —  could  justify  his  partner  in  his  eyes. 

And  now,  to  find  himself,  in  addition,  ignored  by  this 
company  —  his  own  company,  which  he  had  so  laboriously 
and  slowly  assembled  and  selected  among  the  men  of  abil- 
ity whom  he  had  found  here  and  there  in  the  dregs  of  cities 
— was  something  that  stirred  his  bile,  and  aroused  the  ma- 
levolence that  never  did  more  than  slumber  in  him.  But 
deeply  though  his  rage  was  moved,  it  did  not  blind  him  to 
the  folly  of  betraying  it.  Yet  that  he  should  assert  himself 
in  this  hour  was  imperative  unless  he  were  for  ever  to  be- 
come a  thing  of  no  account  in  this  troupe  over  which  he  had 
lorded  it  for  long  months  before  this  interloper  came  amongst 
them  to  fill  his  purse  and  destroy  his  authority. 


The  Conquest  of  Nantes  163 

So  he  stepped  forward  now  when  Polichinelle  had  done. 
His  make-up  assisting  him  to  mask  his  bitter  feelings,  he 
professed  to  add  his  own  to  Polichinelle's  acclamations  of 
his  dear  partner.  But  he  did  it  in  such  a  manner  as  to  make 
it  clear  that  what  Scaramouche  had  done,  he  had  done  by 
M.  Binet's  favour,  and  that  in  all  M.  Binet's  had  been  the 
guiding  hand.  In  associating  himself  with  Polichinelle,  he 
desired  to  thank  Scaramouche,  much  in  the  manner  of  a 
lord  rendering  thanks  to  his  steward  for  services  diligently 
rendered  and  orders  scrupulously  carried  out. 

It  neither  deceived  the  troupe  nor  mollified  himself.  In- 
deed, his  consciousness  of  the  mockery  of  it  but  increased 
his  bitterness.  But  at  least  it  saved  his  face  and  rescued 
him  from  nullity  —  he  who  was  their  chief. 

To  say,  as  I  have  said,  that  it  did  not  deceive  them,  is 
perhaps  to  say  too  much,  for  it  deceived  them  at  least  on  the 
score  of  his  feelings.  They  believed,  after  discounting  the 
insinuations  in  which  he  took  all  credit  to  himself,  that  at 
heart  he  was  filled  with  gratitude,  as  they  were.  That  belief 
was  shared  by  Andre-Louis  himself,  who  in  his  brief,  grate- 
ful answer  was  very  generous  to  M.  Binet,  more  than  en- 
dorsing the  claims  that  M.  Binet  had  made. 

And  then  followed  from  him  the  announcement  that  their 
success  in  Nantes  was  the  sweeter  to  him  because  it  rendered 
almost  immediately  attainable  the  dearest  wish  of  his  heart, 
which  was  to  make  Climene  his  wife.  It  was  a  felicity  of 
which  he  was  the  first  to  acknowledge  his  utter  unworthi- 
ness.  It  was  to  bring  him  into  still  closer  relations  with  his 
good  friend  M.  Binet,  to  whom  he  owed  all  that  he  had 
achieved  for  himself  and  for  them.  The  announcement  was 
joyously  received,  for  the  world  of  the  theatre  loves  a  lover 
as  dearly  as  does  the  greater  world.  So  they  acclaimed  the 
happy  pair,  with  the  exception  of  poor  Leandre,  whose  eyes 
were  more  melancholy  than  ever. 

They  were  a  happy  family  that  night  in  the  upstairs  room 
of  their  inn  on  the  Quai  La  Fosse  —  the  same  inn  from 
which  Andre-Louis  had  set  out  some  weeks  ago  to  play  a 


164  The  Buskin 


vastly  different  r61e  before  an  audience  of  Nantes.  Yet  was 
it  so  different,  he  wondered?  Had  he  not  then  been  a  sort 
of  Scaramouche  —  an  intriguer,  glib  and  specious,  deceiving 
folk,  cynically  misleading  them  with  opinions  that  were  not 
really  his  own?  Was  it  at  all  surprising  that  he  should  have 
made  so  rapid  and  signal  a  success  as  a  mime?  Was  not  this 
really  all  that  he  had  ever  been,  the  thing  for  which  Nature 
had  designed  him? 

On  the  following  night  they  played  "The  Shy  Lover"  to 
a  full  house,  the  fame  of  their  debut  having  gone  abroad, 
and  the  success  of  Monday  was  confirmed.  On  Wednesday 
they  gave  "Figaro-Scaramouche,"  and  on  Thursday  morn- 
ing the  "Courrier  Nantais"  came  out  with  an  article  of  more 
than  a  column  of  praise  of  these  brilliant  improvisers,  for 
whom  it  claimed  that  they  utterly  put  to  shame  tfhe  mere 
reciters  of  memorized  parts. 

Andr£-Louis,  reading  the  sheet  at  breakfast,  and  having 
no  delusions  on  the  score  of  the  falseness  of  that  statement, 
laughed  inwardly.  The  novelty  of  the  thing,  and  the  pre- 
tentiousness in  which  he  had  swaddled  it,  had  deceived  them 
finely.  He  turned  to  greet  Binet  and  Climene,  who  entered 
at  that  moment.  He  waved  the  sheet  above  his  head. 

"It  is  settled,"  he  announced,  "we  stay  in  Nantes  until 
Easter." 

"Do  we?"  said  Binet,  sourly.  "You  settle  everything, 
my  friend." 

"Read  for  yourself."  And  he  handed  him  the  paper. 

Moodily  M.  Binet  read.  He  set  the  sheet  down  in  silence, 
and  turned  his  attention  to  his  breakfast. 

"Was  I  justified  or  not?"  quoth  Andr6-Louis,  who  found 
M.  Binet's  behaviour  a  thought  intriguing. 

"In  what?" 

"In  coming  to  Nantes?" 

"If  I  had  not  thought  so,  we  should  not  have  come,"  said 
Binet,  and  he  began  to  eat. 

Andr£-Louis  dropped  the  subject,  wondering. 

After  breakfast  he  and  Climene  sallied  forth  to  take  the 


The  Conquest  of  Nantes  165 

air  upon  the  quays.  It  was  a  day  of  brilliant  sunshine  and  less 
cold  than  it  had  lately  been.  Columbine  tactlessly  joined 
them  as  they  were  setting  out,  though  in  this  respect  mat- 
ters were  improved  a  little  when  Harlequin  came  running 
after  them,  and  attached  himself  to  Columbine. 

Andr6-Louis,  stepping  out  ahead  with  Climene,  spoke  of 
the  thing  that  was  uppermost  in  his  mind  at  the  moment. 

"Your  father  is  behaving  very  oddly  towards  me,"  said 
he.  "  It  is  almost  as  if  he  had  suddenly  become  hostile." 

"You  imagine  it,"  said  she.  "My  father  is  very  grateful 
to  you,  as  we  all  are." 

"He  is  anything  but  grateful.  He  is  infuriated  against 
me;  and  I  think  I  know  the  reason.  Don't  you?  Can't  you 
guess?" 

"  I  can't,  indeed." 

"  If  you  were  my  daughter,  Climene,  which  God  be  thanked 
you  are  not,  I  should  feel  aggrieved  against  the  man  who 
carried  you  away  from  me.  Poor  old  Pantaloon !  He  called 
me  a  corsair  when  I  told  him  that  I  intend  to  marry  you." 

"He  was  right.   You  are  a  bold  robber,  Scaramouche." 

"It  is  in  the  character,"  said  he.  "Your  father  believes 
in  having  his  mimes  play  upon  the  stage  the  parts  that  suit 
their  natural  temperaments." 

"Yes,  you  take  everything  you  want,  don't  you?"  She 
looked  up  at  him,  half  adoringly,  half  shyly. 

"If  it  is  possible,"  said  he.  "I  took  his  consent  to  our 
marriage  by  main  force  from  him.  I  never  waited  for  him  to 
give  it.  When,  in  fact,  he  refused  it,  I  just  snatched  it  from 
him,  and  I'll  defy  him  now  to  win  it  back  from  me.  I  think 
that  is  what  he  most  resents." 

She  laughed,  and  launched  upon  an  animated  answer. 
But  he  did  not  hear  a  word  of  it.  Through  the  bustle  of 
traffic  on  the  quay  a  cabriolet,  the  upper  half  of  which  was 
almost  entirely  made  of  glass,  had  approached  them.  It 
was  drawn  by  two  magnificent  bay  horses  and  driven  by  a 
superbly  liveried  coachman. 

In  the  cabriolet  alone  sat  a  slight  young  girl  wrapped  in  a 


1 66  The  Buskin 


lynx-fur  pelisse,  her  face  of  a  delicate  loveliness.  She  was 
leaning  forward,  her  lips  parted,  her  eyes  devouring  Scara- 
mouche  until  they  drew  his  gaze.  When  that  happened,  the 
shock  of  it  brought  him  abruptly  to  a  dumfounded  halt. 

Climene,  checking  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence,  arrested 
by  his  own  sudden  stopping,  plucked  at  his  sleeve. 

"What  is  it,  Scaramouche?" 

But  he  made  no  attempt  to  answer  her,  and  at  that 
moment  the  coachman,  to  whom  the  little  lady  had  al- 
ready signalled,  brought  the  carriage  to  a  standstill  beside 
them.  Seen  in  the  gorgeous  setting  of  that  coach  with  its 
escutcheoned  panels,  its  portly  coachman  and  its  white- 
stockinged  footman  —  who  swung  instantly  to  earth  as  the 
vehicle  stopped  —  its  dainty  occupant  seemed  to  Climene  a 
princess  out  of  a  fairy-tale.  And  this  princess  leaned  for- 
ward, with  eyes  aglow  and  cheeks  aflush,  stretching  out  a 
choicely  gloved  hand  to  Scaramouche. 

"Andre-Louis!"  she  called  him. 

And  Scaramouche  took  the  hand  of  that  exalted  being, 
just  as  he  might  have  taken  the  hand  of  Climene  herself,  and 
with  eyes  that  reflected  the  gladness  of  her  own,  in  a  voice 
that  echoed  the  joyous  surprise  of  hers,  he  addressed  her 
familiarly  by  name,  just  as  she  had  addressed  him. 

"Aline!" 


CHAPTER  VIII 
THE  DREAM 

"THE  door,"  Aline  commanded  her  footman,  and  "Mount 
here  beside  me,"  she  commanded  Andr£-Louis,  in  the  same 
breath. 

"A  moment,  Aline." 

He  turned  to  his  companion,  who  was  all  amazement,  and 
to  Harlequin  and  Columbine,  who  had  that  moment  come 
up  to  share  it.  "You  permit  me,  Climene?"  said  he,  breath- 
lessly. But  it  was  more  a  statement  than  a  question.  "  For- 
tunately you  are  not  alone.  Harlequin  will  take  care  of  you. 
Au  revoir,  at  dinner." 

With  that  he  sprang  into  the  cabriolet  without  waiting  for 
a  reply.  The  footman  closed  the  door,  the  coachman  cracked 
his  whip,  and  the  regal  equipage  rolled  away  along  the  quay, 
leaving  the  three  comedians  staring  after  it,  open-mouthed. 
Then  Harlequin  laughed. 

"A  prince  in  disguise,  our  Scaramouche ! "  said  he. 

Columbine  clapped  her  hands  and  flashed  her  strong 
teeth.  "But  what  a  romance  for  you,  Climene!  How  won- 
derful!" 

The  frown  melted  from  Climene's  brow.  Resentment 
changed  to  bewilderment. 

"But  who  is  she?" 

"His  sister,  of  course,"  said  Harlequin,  quite  definitely. 

"His  sister?  How  do  you  know?" 

"I  know  what  he  will  tell  you  on  his  return." 

"But  why?" 

"Because  you  would  n't  believe  him  if  he  said  she  was  his 
mother." 

Following  the  carriage  with  their  glance,  they  wandered 
on  in  the  direction  it  had  taken.  And  in  the  carriage  Aline 
was  considering  Andre-Louis  with  grave  eyes,  lips  slightly 


1 68  The  Buskin 


compressed,  and  a  tiny  frown  between  her  finely  drawn 
eyebrows. 

"You  have  taken  to  queer  company,  Andr6,"  was  the 
first  thing  she  said  to  him.  "Or  else  I  am  mistaken  in  think- 
ing that  your  companion  was  Mile.  Binet  of  the  Theatre 
Feydau." 

"You  are  not  mistaken.  But  I  had  not  imagined  Mile. 
Binet  so  famous  already." 

"Oh,  as  to  that  ..."  mademoiselle  shrugged,  her  tone 
quietly  scornful.  And  she  explained.  "It  is  simply  that  I 
was  at  the  play  last  night.  I  thought  I  recognized  her." 

"You  were  at  the  Feydau  last  night?  And  I  never  saw 
you!" 

"Were  you  there,  too?" 

"Was  I  there!"  he  cried.  Then  he  checked,  and  abruptly 
changed  his  tone.  "Oh,  yes,  I  was  there,"  he  said,  as  com- 
monplace as  he  could,  beset  by  a  sudden  reluctance  to  avow 
that  he  had  so  willingly  descended  to  depths  that  she  must 
account  unworthy,  and  grateful  that  his  disguise  of  face  and 
voice  should  have  proved  impenetrable  even  to  one  who 
knew  him  so  very  well. 

"I  understand,"  said  she,  and  compressed  her  lips  a  little 
more  tightly. 

"But  what  do  you  understand?" 

"The  rare  attractions  of  Mile.  Binet.  Naturally  you  would 
be  at  the  theatre.  Your  tone  conveyed  it  very  clearly.  Do 
you  know  that  you  disappoint  me,  Andr6?  It  is  stupid  of  me, 
perhaps;  it  betrays,  I  suppose,  my  imperfect  knowledge  of 
your  sex.  I  am  aware  that  most  young  men  of  fashion  find 
an  irresistible  attraction  for  creatures  who  parade  them- 
selves upon  the  stage.  But  I  did  not  expect  you  to  ape  the 
ways  of  a  man  of  fashion.  I  was  foolish  enough  to  imagine 
you  to  be  different;  rather  above  such  trivial  pursuits.  I 
conceived  you  something  of  an  idealist." 

"Sheer  flattery." 

"So  I  perceive.  But  you  misled  me.  You  talked  so  much 
morality  of  a  kind,  you  made  philosophy  so  readily,  that  I 


The  Dream  169 


came  to  be  deceived.  In  fact,  your  hypocrisy  was  so  con- 
summate that  I  never  suspected  it.  With  your  gift  of  acting 
I  wonder  that  you  have  n't  joined  Mile.  Binet's  troupe." 

"I  have,"  said  he. 

It  had  really  become  necessary  to  tell  her,  making  choice 
of  the  lesser  of  the  two  evils  with  which  she  confronted  him. 

He  saw  first  incredulity,  then  consternation,  and  lastly 
disgust  overspread  her  face. 

"Of  course,"  said  she,  after  a  long  pause,  "that  would 
have  the  advantage  of  bringing  you  closer  to  your  charmer." 

"That  was  only  one  of  the  inducements.  There  was  an- 
other. Finding  myself  forced  to  choose  between  the  stage 
and  the  gallows,  I  had  the  incredible  weakness  to  prefer  the 
former.  It  was  utterly  unworthy  of  a  man  of  my  lofty  ideals, 
but  —  what  would  you?  Like  other  ideologists,  I  find  it 
easier  to  preach  than  to  practise.  Shall  I  stop  the  carriage 
and  remove  the  contamination  of  my  disgusting  person? 
Or  shall  I  tell  you  how  it  happened?" 

"Tell  me  how  it  happened  first.  Then  we  will  decide." 

He  told  her  how  he  met  the  Binet  Troupe,  and  how  the 
men  of  the  marechauss6e  forced  upon  him  the  discovery  that 
in  its  bosom  he  could  lie  safely  lost  until  the  hue  and  cry  had 
died  down.  The  explanation  dissolved  her  iciness. 

"My  poor  Andre,  why  did  n't  you  tell  me  this  at  first?" 

"For  one  thing,  you  did  n't  give  me  time;  for  another,  I 
feared  to  shock  you  with  the  spectacle  of  my  degradation." 

She  took  him  seriously.  "But  where  was  the  need  of  it? 
And  why  did  you  not  send  us  word  as  I  required  you  of  your 
whereabouts?" 

"  I  was  thinking  of  it  only  yesterday.  I  have  hesitated  for 
several  reasons." 

"You  thought  it  would  offend  us  to  know  what  you  were 
doing?" 

"I  think  that  I  preferred  to  surprise  you  by  the  magni- 
tude of  my  ultimate  achievements." 

"Oh,  you  are  to  become  a  great  actor?"  She  was  frankry 
scornful. 


170  The  Buskin 


"That  is  not  impossible.  But  I  am  more  concerned  to  be- 
come a  great  author.  There  is  no  reason  why  you  should 
sniff.  The  calling  is  an  honourable  one.  All  the  world  is 
proud  to  know  such  men  as  Beaumarchais  and  Ch£nier." 

"And  you  hope  to  equal  them?" 

"I  hope  to  surpass  them,  whilst  acknowledging  that  it 
was  they  who  taught  me  how  to  walk.  What  did  you  think 
of  the  play  last  night?" 

"It  was  amusing  and  well  conceived." 

"Let  me  present  you  to  the  author." 

"You?  But  the  company  is  one  of  the  improvisers." 

"Even  improvisers  require  an  author  to  write  their  sce- 
narios. That  is  all  I  write  at  present.  Soon  I  shall  be  writing 
plays  in  the  modern  manner." 

"You  deceive  yourself,  my  poor  Andr6.  The  piece  last 
night  would  have  been  nothing  without  the  players.  You 
are  fortunate  in  your  Scaramouche." 

"In  confidence  —  I  present  you  to  him." 

"You  —  Scaramouche?  You?"  She  turned  to  regard 
him  fully.  He  smiled  his  close-lipped  smile  that  made  wrin- 
kles like  gashes  in  his  cheeks.  He  nodded. 

"And  I  did  n't  recognize  you!" 

"I  thank  you  for  the  tribute.  You  imagined,  of  course, 
that  I  was  a  scene-shifter.  And  now  that  you  know  all  about 
me,  what  of  Gavrillac?  What  of  my  godfather?" 

He  was  well,  she  told  him,  and  still  profoundly  indignant 
with  Andr6-Louis  for  his  defection,  whilst  secretly  con- 
cerned on  his  behalf. 

"I  shall  write  to  him  to-day  that  I  have  seen  you." 

"Do  so.  Tell  him  that  I  am  well  and  prospering.  But  say 
no  more.  Do  not  tell  him  what  I  am  doing.  He  has  his 
prejudices  too.  Besides,  it  might  not  be  prudent.  And  now 
the  question  I  have  been  burning  to  ask  ever  since  I  entered 
your  carriage.  Why  are  you  in  Nantes,  Aline?" 

"  I  am  on  a  visit  to  my  aunt,  Mme.  de  Sautron.  It  was  with 
her  that  I  came  to  the  play  yesterday.  We  have  been  dull  at 
the  chateau ;  but  it  will  be  different  now.  Madame  my  aunt 


The  Dream  171 


is  receiving  several  guests  to-day.  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr  is 
to  be  one  of  them." 

Andre-Louis  frowned  and  sighed.  "Did  you  ever  hear, 
Aline,  how  poor  Philippe  de  Vilmorin  came  by  his  end?" 

"Yes;  I  was  told,  first  by  my  uncle;  then  by  M.  de  La 
Tour  d'Azyr,  himself." 

"Did  not  that  help  you  to  decide  this  marriage  question?" 

"  How  could  it?  You  forget  that  I  am  but  a  woman. 
You  don't  expect  me  to  judge  between  men  in  matters  such 
as  these?" 

"Why  not?  You  are  well  able  to  do  so.  The  more  since 
you  have  heard  two  sides.  For  my  godfather  would  tell  you 
the  truth.  If  you  cannot  judge,  it  is  that  you  do  not  wish 
to  judge."  His  tone  became  harsh.  "Wilfully  you  close 
your  eyes  to  justice  that  might  check  the  course  of  your 
unhealthy,  unnatural  ambition." 

"Excellent!"  she  exclaimed,  and  considered  him  with 
amusement  and  something  else.  "Do  you  know  that  you 
are  almost  droll?  You  rise  unblushing  from  the  dregs  of  life 
in  which  I  find  you,  and  shake  off  the  arm  of  that  theatre 
girl,  to  come  and  preach  to  me." 

"If  these  were  the  dregs  of  life  I  might  still  speak  from 
them  to  counsel  you  out  of  my  respect  and  devotion,  Aline." 
He  was  very  stiff  and  stern.  "  But  they  are  not  the  dregs  of 
life.  Honour  and  virtue  are  possible  to  a  theatre  girl ;  they 
are  impossible  to  a  lady  who  sells  herself  to  gratify  ambition; 
who  for  position,  riches,  and  a  great  title  barters  herself  in 
marriage." 

She  looked  at  him  breathlessly.  Anger  turned  her  pale. 
She  reached  for  the  cord. 

"I  think  I  had  better  let  you  alight  so  that  you  may  go 
back  to  practise  virtue  and  honour  with  your  theatre  wench." 

"You  shall  not  speak  so  of  her,  Aline." 

"Faith,  now  we  are  to  have  heat  on  her  behalf.  You  think 
I  am  too  delicate?  You  think  I  should  speak  of  her  as  a  ..." 

"If  you  must  speak  of  her  at  all,"  he  interrupted,  hotly, 
speak  of  her  as  my  wife." 


172  The  Buskin 


Amazement  smothered  her  anger.  Her  pallor  deepened. 
"My  God!"  she  said,  and  looked  at  him  in  horror.  And  in 
horror  she  asked  him  presently:  "You  are  married  —  mar- 
ried to  that — ?" 

"Not  yet.  But  I  shall  be,  soon.  And  let  me  tell  you  that 
this  girl  whom  you  visit  with  your  ignorant  contempt  is  as 
good  and  pure  as  you  are,  Aline.  She  has  wit  and  talent 
which  have  placed  her  where  she  is  and  shall  carry  her  a  deal 
farther.  And  she  has  the  womanliness  to  be  guided  by 
natural  instincts  in  the  selection  of  her  mate." 

She  was  trembling  with  passion.  She  tugged  the  cord. 

"You  will  descend  this  instant!"  she  told  him  fiercely. 
"That  you  should  dare  to  make  a  comparison  between  me 
and  that  ..." 

"And  my  wife- to-be,"  he  interrupted,  before  she  could 
speak  the  infamous  word.  He  opened  the  door  for  himself 
without  waiting  for  the  footman,  and  leapt  down.  "  My  com- 
pliments," said  he,  furiously,  "to  the  assassin  you  are  to 
marry."  He  slammed  the  door.  "Drive  on,"  he  bade  the 
coachman. 

The  carriage  rolled  away  up  the  Faubourg  Gigan,  leaving 
him  standing  where  he  had  alighted,  quivering  with  rage. 
Gradually,  as  he  walked  back  to  the  inn,  his  anger  cooled. 
Gradually,  as  he  cooled,  he  perceived  her  point  of  view,  and 
in  the  end  forgave  her.  It  was  not  her  fault  that  she  thought 
as  she  thought.  Her  rearing  had  been  such  as  to  make  her 
look  upon  every  actress  as  a  trull,  just  as  it  had  qualified  her 
calmly  to  consider  the  monstrous  marriage  of  convenience 
into  which  she  was  invited. 

He  got  back  to  the  inn  to  find  the  company  at  table. 
Silence  fell  when  he  entered,  so  suddenly  that  of  necessity  it 
must  be  supposed  he  was  himself  the  subject  of  the  conver- 
sation. Harlequin  and  Columbine  had  spread  the  tale  of 
this  prince  in  disguise  caught  up  into  the  chariot  of  a  prin- 
cess and  carried  off  by  her;  and  it  was  a  tale  that  had  lost 
nothing  in  the  telling. 

Climene  had  been  silent  and  thoughtful,  pondering  what 


The  Dream  173 


Columbine  had  called  this  romance  of  hers.  Clearly  her 
Scaramouche  must  be  vastly  other  than  he  had  hitherto 
appeared,  or  else  that  great  lady  and  he  would  never  have 
used  such  familiarity  with  each  other.  Imagining  him  no 
better  than  he  was,  Climene  had  made  him  her  own.  And  now 
she  was  to  receive  the  reward  of  disinterested  affection. 

Even  old  Binet's  secret  hostility  towards  Andre-Louis 
melted  before  this  astounding  revelation.  He  had  pinched 
his  daughter's  ear  quite  playfully.  "Ah,  ah,  trust  you  to  have 
penetrated  his  disguise,  my  child!" 

She  shrank  resentfully  from  that  implication. 

"But  I  did  not.   I  took  him  for  what  he  seemed." 

Her  father  winked  at  her  very  solemnly  and  laughed. 
"To  be  sure,  you  did.  But  like  your  father,  who  was  once  a 
gentleman,  and  knows  the  ways  of  gentlemen,  you  detected 
in  him  a  subtle  something  different  from  those  with  whom 
misfortune  has  compelled  you  hitherto  to  herd.  You  knew 
as  well  as  I  did  that  he  never  caught  that  trick  of  haughti- 
ness, that  grand  air  of  command,  in  a  lawyer's  musty  office, 
and  that  his  speech  had  hardly  the  ring  or  his  thoughts  the 
complexion  of  the  bourgeois  that  he  pretended  to  be.  And 
it  was  shrewd  of  you  to  have  made  him  yours.  Do  you  know 
that  I  shall  be  very  proud  of  you  yet,  Climene?" 

She  moved  away  without  answering.  Her  father's  oiliness 
offended  her.  Scaramouche  was  clearly  a  great  gentleman, 
an  eccentric  if  you  please,  but  a  man  born.  And  she  was  to 
be  his  lady.  Her  father  must  learn  to  treat  her  differently. 

She  looked  shyly  —  with  a  new  shyness  —  at  her  lover 
when  he  came  into  the  room  where  they  were  dining.  She 
observed  for  the  first  time  that  proud  carriage  of  the  head,, 
with  the  chin  thrust  forward,  that  was  a  trick  of  his,  and  she 
noticed  with  what  a  grace  he  moved  —  the  grace  of  one  who 
in  youth  has  had  his  dancing-masters  and  fencing-masters. 

It  almost  hurt  her  when  he  flung  himself  into  a  chair  and 
exchanged  a  quip  with  Harlequin  in  the  usual  manner  as 
with  an  equal,  and  it  offended  her  still  more  that  Harlequin, 
knowing  what  he  now  knew,  should  use  him  with  the  same 
unbecoming  familiarity. 


CHAPTER  IX 
THE  AWAKENING 

"Do  you  know,"  said  Climene,  "that  I  am  waiting  for  the 
explanation  which  I  think  you  owe  me?" 

They  were  alone  together,  lingering  still  at  the  table  to 
which  Andre-Louis  had  come  belatedly,  and  Andre-Louis 
was  loading  himself  a  pipe.  Of  late  —  since  joining  the  Binet 
Troupe  —  he  had  acquired  the  habit  of  smoking.  The  others 
had  gone,  some  to  take  the  air  and  others,  like  Binet  and 
Madame,  because  they  felt  that  it  were  discreet  to  leave 
those  two  to  the  explanations  that  must  pass.  It  was  a  feel- 
ing that  Andr£-Louis  did  not  share.  He  kindled  a  light  and 
leisurely  applied  it  to  his  pipe.  A  frown  came  to  settle  on  his 
brow. 

"Explanation?"  he  questioned  presently,  and  looked  at 
her.  "But  on  what  score?" 

"On  the  score  of  the  deception  you  have  practised  on  us 
—  on  me." 

"I  have  practised  none,"  he  assured  her. 

"You  mean  that  you  have  simply  kept  your  own  counsel, 
and  that  in  silence  there  is  no  deception.  But  it  is  deceitful 
to  withhold  facts  concerning  yourself  and  your  true  station 
from  your  future  wife.  You  should  not  have  pretended  to 
be  a  simple  country  lawyer,  which,  of  course,  any  one  could 
see  that  you  are  not.  It  may  have  been  very  romantic, 
but  .  .  .  Enfin,  will  you  explain?" 

"I  see,"  he  said,  and  pulled  at  his  pipe.  "But  you  are 
wrong,  Climene.  I  have  practised  no  deception.  If  there 
are  things  about  me  that  I  have  not  told  you,  it  is  that  I  did 
not  account  them  of  much  importance.  But  I  have  never 
deceived  you  by  pretending  to  be  other  than  I  am.  I  am 
neither  more  nor  less  than  I  have  represented  myself." 


The  Awakening  175 


This  persistence  began  to  annoy  her,  and  the  annoyance 
showed  on  her  winsome  face,  coloured  her  voice. 

"Ha!  And  that  fine  lady  of  the  nobility  with  whom  you 
are  so  intimate,  who  carried  you  off  in  her  cabriolet  with  so 
little  ceremony  towards  myself?  What  is  she  to  you?" 

"A  sort  of  sister,"  said  he. 

"A  sort  of  sister!"  She  was  indignant.  "Harlequin  fore- 
told that  you  would  say  so ;  but  he  was  amusing  himself.  It 
was  not  very  funny.  It  is  less  funny  still  from  you.  She  has  a 
name,  I  suppose,  this  sort  of  sister?" 

"Certainly  she  has  a  name.  She  is  Mile.  Aline  de  Ker- 
cadiou,  the  niece  of  Quintin  de  Kercadiou,  Lord  of  Gav- 
rillac." 

"Oho!  That's  a  sufficiently  fine  name  for  your  sort  of 
sister.  What  sort  of  sister,  my  friend?" 

For  the  first  time  in  their  relationship  he  observed  and  de- 
plored the  taint  of  vulgarity,  of  shrewishness,  in  her  manner. 

"It  would  have  been  more  accurate  in  me  to  have  said  a 
sort  of  reputed  left-handed  cousin."  . 

"A  reputed  left-handed  cousin!  And  what  sort  of  rela- 
tionship may  that  be?  Faith,  you  dazzle  me  with  your 
lucidity." 

"It  requires  to  be  explained." 

"That  is  what  I  have  been  telling  you.  But  you  seem 
very  reluctant  with  your  explanations." 

"Oh,  no.  It  is  only  that  they  are  so  unimportant.  But 
be  you  the  judge.  Her  uncle,  M.  de  Kercadiou,  is  my  god- 
father, and  she  and  I  have  been  playmates  from  infancy  as 
a  consequence.  It  is  popularly  believed  in  Gavrillac  that 
M.  de  Kercadiou  is  my  father.  He  has  certainly  cared  for 
my  rearing  from  my  tenderest  years,  and  it  is  entirely  owing 
to  him  that  I  was  educated  at  Louis  le  Grand.  I  owe  to  him 
everything  that  I  have  —  or,  rather,  everything  that  I  had ; 
for  of  my  own  free  will  I  have  cut  myself  adrift,  and  to-day  I 
possess  nothing  save  what  I  can  earn  for  myself  in  the  theatre 
or  elsewhere." 

She  sat  stunned  and  pale  under  that  cruel  blow  to  her 


176  The  Buskin 


swelling  pride.  Had  he  told  her  this  but  yesterday,  it  would 
have  made  no  impression  upon  her,  it  would  have  mattered 
not  at  all ;  the  event  of  to-day  coming  as  a  sequel  would  but 
have  enhanced  him  in  her  eyes.  But  coming  now,  after  her 
imagination  had  woven  for  him  so  magnificent  a  background, 
after  the  rashly  assumed  discovery  of  his  splendid  identity 
had  made  her  the  envied  of  all  the  company,  after  having 
been  in  her  own  eyes  5nd  theirs  enshrined  by  marriage  with 
him  as  a  great  lady,  this  disclosure  crushed  and  humiliated 
her.  Her  prince  in  disguise  was  merely  the  outcast  bastard 
of  a  country  gentleman !  She  would  be  the  laughing-stock  of 
every  member  of  her  father's  troupe,  of  all  those  who  had  so 
lately  envied  her  this  romantic  good  fortune. 

"You  should  have  told  me  this  before,"  she  said,  in  a  dull 
voice  that  she  strove  to  render  steady. 

"Perhaps  I  should.   But  does  it  really  matter?" 

"Matter?"  She  suppressed  her  fury  to  ask  another 
question.  "You  say  that  this  M.  de  Kercadiou  is  popularly 
believed  to  be  your  father.  What  precisely  do  you  mean?" 

"Just  that.  It  is  a  belief  that  I  do  not  share.  It  is  a 
matter  of  instinct,  perhaps,  with  me.  Moreover,  once  I 
asked  M.  de  Kercadiou  point-blank,  and  I  received  from 
him  a  denial.  It  is  not,  perhaps,  a  denial  to  which  one 
would  attach  too  much  importance  in  all  the  circumstances. 
Yet  I  have  never  known  M.  de  Kercadiou  for  other  than  a 
man  of  strictest  honour,  and  I  should  hesitate  to  disbelieve 
him  —  particularly  when  his  statement  leaps  with  my  own 
instincts.  He  assured  me  that  he  did  not  know  who  my 
father  was." 

"And  your  mother,  was  he  equally  ignorant?"  She  was 
sneering,  but  he  did  not  remark  it.  Her  back  was  to  the  light. 

"He  would  not  disclose  her  name  to  me.  He  confessed 
her  to  be  a  dear  friend  of  his." 

She  startled  him  by  laughing,  and  her  laugh  was  not 
pleasant. 

"A  very  dear  friend,  you  may  be  sure,  you  simpleton. 
What  name  do  you  bear?" 


The  Awakening  177 


He  restrained  his  own  rising  indignation  to  answer  her 
question  calmly:  "Moreau.  It  was  given  me,  so  I  am  told, 
from  the  Brittany  village  in  which  I  was  born.  But  I  have 
no  claim  to  it.  In  fact  I  have  no  name,  unless  it  be  Scara- 
mouche,  to  which  I  have  earned  a  title.  So  that  you  see,  my 
dear,"  he  ended  with  a  smile,  "I  have  practised  no  de- 
ception whatever." 

"No,  no.  I  see  that  now."  She  laughed  without  mirth,  then 
drew  a  deep  breath  and  rose.  "I  am  very  tired,"  she  said. 

He  was  on  his  feet  in  an  instant,  all  solicitude.  But  she 
waved  him  wearily  back. 

"I  think  I  will  rest  until  it  is  time  to  go  to  the  theatre." 

She  moved  towards  the  door,  dragging  her  feet  a  little.  He 
sprang  to  open  it,  and  she  passed  out  without  looking  at  him. 

Her  so  brief  romantic  dream  was  ended.  The  glorious 
world  of  fancy  which  in  the  last  hour  she  had  built  with 
such  elaborate  detail,  over  which  it  should  be  her  exalted 
destiny  to  rule,  lay  shattered  about  her  feet,  its  debris  so 
many  stumbling-blocks  that  prevented  her  from  winning 
back  to  her  erstwhile  content  in  Scaramouche  as  he  really 
was. 

Andr6-Louis  sat  in  the  window  embrasure,  smoking  and 
looking  idly  out  across  the  river.  He  was  intrigued  and 
meditative.  He  had  shocked  her.  The  fact  was  clear;  not 
so  the  reason.  That  he  should  confess  himself  nameless 
should  not  particularly  injure  him  in  the  eyes  of  a  girl 
reared  amid  the  surroundings  that  had  been  Climene's. 
And  yet  that  his  confession  had  so  injured  him  was  fully 
apparent. 

There,  still  at  his  brooding,  the  returning  Columbine 
discovered  him  a  half-hour  later. 

"All  alone,  my  prince!"  was  her  laughing  greeting,  which 
suddenly  threw  light  upon  his  mental  darkness.  Climene 
had  been  disappointed  of  hopes  that  the  wild  imagination 
of  these  players  had  suddenly  erected  upon  the  incident  of 
his  meeting  with  Aline.  Poor  child!  He  smiled  whimsically 
at  Columbine, 


178  The  Buskin 


" I  am  likely  to  be  so  for  some  little  time,"  said  he,  "until 
it  becomes  a  commonplace  that  I  am  not,  after  all,  a  prince." 

"Not  a  prince?  Oh,  but  a  duke,  then  —  at  least  a 
marquis." 

"Not  even  a  chevalier,  unless  it  be  of  the  order  of  fortune. 
I  am  just  Scaramouche.  My  castles  are  all  in  Spain." 

Disappointment  clouded  the  lively,  good-natured  face. 

"And  I  had  imagined  you  ..." 

"I  know,"  he  interrupted.   "That  is  the  mischief." 

He  might  have  gauged  the  extent  of  that  mischief  by 
Climene 's  conduct  that  evening  towards  the  gentlemen  of 
fashion  who  clustered  now  in  the  green-room  between  the 
acts  to  pay  their  homage  to  the  incomparable  amoureuse. 
Hitherto  she  had  received  them  with  a  circumspection  com- 
pelling respect.  To-night  she  was  recklessly  gay,  impu- 
dent, almost  wanton. 

He  spoke  of  it  gently  to  her  as  they  walked  home  to- 
gether, counselling  more  prudence  in  the  future. 

"We  are  not  married  yet,"  she  told  him,  tartly.  "Wait 
until  then  before  you  criticize  my  conduct." 

"I  trust  that  there  will  be  no  occasion  then,"  said  he. 

"You  trust?  Ah,  yes.  You  are  very  trusting." 

"Climene,  I  have  offended  you.   I  am  sorry." 

"It  is  nothing,"  said  she.   "You  are  what  you  are." 

Still  was  he  not  concerned.  He  perceived  the  source  of 
her  ill-humour;  understood,  whilst  deploring  it;  and,  be- 
cause he  understood,  forgave.  He  perceived  also  that  her 
ill-humour  was  shared  by  her  father,  and  by  this  he  was 
frankly  amused.  Towards  M.  Binet  a  tolerant  contempt 
was  the  only  feeling  that  complete  acquaintance  could  be- 
get. As  for  the  rest  of  the  company,  they  were  disposed  to 
be  very  kindly  towards  Scaramouche.  It  was  almost  as  if 
in  reality  he  had  fallen  from  the  high  estate  to  which  their 
own  imaginations  had  raised  him;  or  possibly  it  was  be- 
cause they  saw  the  effect  which  that  fall  from  his  temporary 
and  fictitious  elevation  had  produced  upon  Climene. 

L6andre  alone  made  himself  an  exception.   His  habitual 


The  Awakening  179 


melancholy  seemed  to  be  dispelled  at  last,  and  his  eyes 
gleamed  now  with  malicious  satisfaction  when  they  rested 
upon  Scaramouche,  whom  occasionally  he  continued  to 
address  with  sly  mockery  as  "mon  prince." 

On  the  morrow  Andre-Louis  saw  but  little  of  Climene. 
This  was  not  in  itself  extraordinary,  for  he  was  very  hard 
at  work  again,  with  preparations  now  for  "Figaro-Scara- 
mouche"  which  was  to  be  played  on  Saturday.  Also,  in 
addition  to  his  manifold  theatrical  occupations,  he  now 
devoted  an  hour  every  morning  to  the  study  of  fencing  in 
an  academy  of  arms.  This  was  done  not  only  to  repair  an 
omission  in  his  education,  but  also,  and  chiefly,  to  give  him 
added  grace  and  poise  upon  the  stage.  He  found  his  mind 
that  morning  distracted  by  thoughts  of  both  Climene  and 
Aline.  And  oddly  enough  it  was  Aline  who  provided  the 
deeper  perturbation.  Climene's  attitude  he  regarded  as  a 
passing  phase  which  need  not  seriously  engage  him.  But 
the  thought  of  Aline's  conduct  towards  him  kept  rankling, 
and  still  more  deeply  rankled  the  thought  of  her  possible 
betrothal  to  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr. 

This  it  was  that  brought  forcibly  to  his  mind  the  self- 
imposed  but  by  now  half-forgotten  mission  that  he  had 
made  his  own.  He  had  boasted  that  he  would  make  the 
voice  which  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr  had  sought  to  silence 
ring  through  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  land.  And  what 
had  he  done  of  all  this  that  he  had  boasted?  He  had  incited 
the  mob  of  Rennes  and  the  mob  of  Nantes  in  such  terms  as 
poor  Philippe  might  have  employed,  and  then  because  of 
a  hue  and  cry  he  had  fled  like  a  cur  and  taken  shelter  in 
the  first  kennel  that  offered,  there  to  lie  quiet  and  devote 
himself  to  other  things  —  self-seeking  things.  What  a  fine 
contrast  between  the  promise  and  the  fulfilment! 

Thus  Andr£-Louis  to  himself  in  his  self-contempt.  And 
whilst  he  trifled  away  his  time  and  played  Scaramouche, 
and  centred  all  his  hopes  in  presently  becoming  the  rival  of 
such  men  as  Ch6nier  and  Mercier,  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr 
went  his  proud  ways  unchallenged  and  wrought  his  will.  It 


i8o  The  Buskin 


was  idle  to  tell  himself  that  the  seed  he  had  sown  was  bear- 
ing fruit.  That  the  demands  he  had  voiced  in  Nantes  for 
the  Third  Estate  had  been  granted  by  M.  Necker,  thanks 
largely  to  the  commotion  which  his  anonymous  speech 
had  made.  That  was  not  his  concern  or  his  mission.  It 
was  no  part  of  his  concern  to  set  about  the  regeneration  of 
mankind,  or  even  the  regeneration  of  the  social  structure  of 
France.  His  concern  was  to  see  that  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr 
paid  to  the  uttermost  Hard  for  the  brutal  wrong  he  had  done 
Philippe  de  Vilmorin.  And  it  did  not  increase  his  self-re- 
spect to  find  that  the  danger  in  which  Aline  stood  of  being 
married  to  the  Marquis  was  the  real  spur  to  his  rancour 
and  to  remembrance  of  his  vow.  He  was  —  too  unjustly, 
perhaps — disposed  to  dismiss  as  mere  sophistries  his  own 
arguments  that  there  was  nothing  he  could  do ;  that,  in  fact, 
he  had  but  to  show  his  head  to  find  himself  going  to  Rennes 
under  arrest  and  making  his  final  exit  from  the  world's 
stage  by  way  of  the  gallows. 

It  is  impossible  to  read  that  part  of  his  "Confessions" 
without  feeling  a  certain  pity  for  him.  You  realize  what 
must  have  been  his  state  of  mind.  You  realize  what  a  prey 
he  was  to  emotions  so  conflicting,  and  if  you  have  the 
imagination  that  will  enable  you  to  put  yourself  in  his  place, 
you  will  also  realize  how  impossible  was  any  decision  save 
the  one  to  which  he  says  he  came,  that  he  would  move  at 
the  first  moment  that  he  perceived  in  what  direction  it 
would  serve  his  real  aims  to  move. 

It  happened  that  the  first  person  he  saw  when  he  took  the 
stage  on  that  Thursday  evening  was  Aline ;  the  second  was 
the  Marquis  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr.  They  occupied  a  box  on 
the  right  of,  and  immediately  above,  the  stage.  There  were 
others  with  them  —  notably  a  thin,  elderly,  resplendent 
lady  whom  Andr£-Louis  supposed  to  be  Madame  la  Com- 
tesse  de  Sautron.  But  at  the  time  he  had  no  eyes  for  any 
but  those  two,  who  of  late  had  so  haunted  his  thoughts. 
The  sight  of  either  of  them  would  have  been  sufficiently 
disconcerting.  The  sight  of  both  together  very  nearly 


The  Awakening  181 


made  him  forget  the  purpose  for  which  he  had  come  upon 
the  stage.  Then  he  pulled  himself  together,  and  played. 
He  played,  he  says,  with  an  unusual  nerve,  and  never  in 
all  that  brief  but  eventful  career  of  his  was  he  more  ap- 
plauded. 

That  was  the  evening's  first  shock.  The  next  came  after 
the  second  act.  Entering  the  green-room  he  found  it  more 
thronged  than  usual,  and  at  the  far  end  with  Climene, 
over  whom  he  was  bending  from  his  fine  height,  his  eyes  in- 
tent upon  her  face,  what  time  his  smiling  lips  moved  in 
talk,  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr.  He  had  her  entirely  to  himself, 
a  privilege  none  of  the  men  of  fashion  who  were  in  the  habit 
of  visiting  the  coulisses  had  yet  enjoyed.  Those  lesser 
gentlemen  had  all  withdrawn  before  the  Marquis,  as  jackals 
withdraw  before  the  lion. 

Andre-Louis  stared  a  moment,  stricken.  Then  recovering 
from  his  surprise  he  became  critical  in  his  study  of  the 
Marquis.  He  considered  the  beauty  and  grace  and  splendour 
of  him,  his  courtly  air,  his  complete  and  unshakable  self- 
possession.  But  more  than  all  he  considered  the  expression 
of  the  dark  eyes  that  were  devouring  Climene's  lovely  face, 
and  his  own  lips  tightened. 

M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr  never  heeded  him  or  his  stare; 
nor,  had  he  done  so,  would  he  have  known  who  it  was  that 
looked  at  him  from  behind  the  make-up  of  Scaramouche; 
nor,  again,  had  he  known,  would  he  have  been  in  the  least 
troubled  or  concerned. 

Andr£-Louis  sat  down  apart,  his  mind  in  turmoil.  Pres- 
ently he  found  a  mincing  young  gentleman  addressing 
him,  and  made  shift  to  answer  as  was  expected.  Climene 
having  been  thus  sequestered,  and  Columbine  being  al- 
ready thickly  besieged  by  gallants,  the  lesser  visitors  had  to 
content  themselves  with  Madame  and  the  male  members  of 
the  troupe.  M.  Binet,  indeed,  was  the  centre  of  a  gay 
cluster  that  shook  with  laughter  at  his  sallies.  He  seemed 
of  a  sudden  to  have  emerged  from  the  gloom  of  the  last  two 
days  into  high  good-humour,  and  Scaramouche  observed 


1 82  The  Buskin 


how  persistently  his  eyes  kept  flickering  upon  his  daughter 
and  her  splendid  courtier. 

That  night  there  were  high  words  between  Andr£-Louis 
and  Climene,  the  high  words  proceeding  from  Climene. 
When  Andre-Louis  again,  and  more  insistently,  enjoined 
prudence  upon  his  betrothed,  and  begged  her  to  beware  how 
far  she  encouraged  the  advances  of  such  a  man  as  M.  de  La 
Tour  d'Azyr,  she  became  roundly  abusive.  She  shocked  and 
stunned  him  by  her  virulently  shrewish  tone,  and  her  still 
more  unexpected  force  of  invective. 

He  sought  to  reason  with  her,  and  finally  she  came  to  cer- 
tain terms  with  him. 

"  If  you  have  become  betrothed  to  me  simply  to  stand  as  an 
obstacle  in  my  path,  the  sooner  we  make  an  end  the  better." 

"You  do  not  love  me  then,  Climene?" 

"Love  has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  I  '11  not  tolerate  your  in- 
sensate jealousy.  A  girl  in  the  theatre  must  make  it  her  busi- 
ness to  accept  homage  from  all." 

"Agreed ;  and  there  is  no  harm,  provided  she  gives  nothing 
in  exchange." 

White -faced,  with  flaming  eyes  she  turned  on  him  at  that. 

"Now,  what  exactly  do  you  mean?" 

"My  meaning  is  clear.  A  girl  in  your  position  may  re- 
ceive all  the  homage  that  is  offered,  provided  she  receives  it 
with  a  dignified  aloofness  implying  clearly  that  she  has  no 
favours  to  bestow  in  return  beyond  the  favour  of  her  smile. 
If  she  is  wise  she  will  see  to  it  that  the  homage  is  always 
offered  collectively  by  her  admirers,  and  that  no  single  one 
amongst  them  shall  ever  have  the  privilege  of  approaching 
her  alone.  If  she  is  wise  she  will  give  no  encouragement, 
nourish  no  hopes  that  it  may  afterwards  be  beyond  her 
power  to  deny  realization." 

"How?  You  dare?" 

"I  know  my  world.  And  I  know  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr," 
he  answered  her.  "He  is  a  man  without  charity,  without 
humanity  almost ;  a  man  who  takes  what  he  wants  wherever 
he  finds  it  and  whether  it  is  given  willingly  or  not;  a  man 


The  Awakening  183 


who  reckons  nothing  of  the  misery  he  scatters  on  his  self- 
indulgent  way;  a  man  whose  only  law  is  force.  Ponder  it, 
Climene,  and  ask  yourself  if  I  do  you  less  than  honour  in 
warning  you." 

He  went  out  on  that,  feeling  a  degradation  in  continuing 
the  subject. 

The  days  that  followed  were  unhappy  days  for  him,  and 
for  at  least  one  other.  That  other  was  L6andre,  who  was 
cast  into  the  profoundest  dejection  by  M.  de  La  Tour 
d'Azyr's  assiduous  attendance  upon  Climene.  The  Marquis 
was  to  be  seen  at  every  performance ;  a  box  was  perpetually 
reserved  for  him,  and  invariably  he  came  either  alone  or  else 
with  his  cousin  M.  de  Chabrillane. 

On  Tuesday  of  the  following  week,  Andr£-Louis  went  out 
alone  early  in  the  morning.  He  was  out  of  temper,  fretted 
by  an  overwhelming  sense  of  humiliation,  and  he  hoped  to 
clear  his  mind  by  walking.  In  turning  the  corner  of  the  Place 
du  Bouffay  he  ran  into  a  slightly  built,  sallow-complexioned 
gentleman  very  neatly  dressed  in  black,  wearing  a  tie-wig 
under  a  round  hat.  The  man  fell  back  at  sight  of  him, 
levelling  a  spy-glass,  then  hailed  him  in  a  voice  that  rang 
with  amazement. 

"Moreau!  Where  the  devil  have  you  been  hiding  your- 
self these  months?" 

It  was  Le  Chapelier,  the  lawyer,  the  leader  of  the  Literary 
Chamber  of  Rennes. 

"Behind  the  skirts  of  Thespis,"  said  Scaramouche. 

"I  don't  understand." 

"I  didn't  intend  that  you  should.  What  of  yourself, 
Isaac?  And  what  of  the  world  which  seems  to  have  been 
standing  still  of  late?" 

"Standing  still!"  Le  Chapelier  laughed.  "But  where 
have  you  been,  then?  Standing  still!"  He  pointed  across 
the  square  to  a  cafe  under  the  shadow  of  the  gloomy  prison. 
"Let  us  go  and  drink  a  bavaroise.  You  are  of  all  men  the 
man  we  want,  the  man  we  have  been  seeking  everywhere, 
and  —  behold!  —  you  drop  from  the  skies  into  my  path." 


184  The  Buskin 


They  crossed  the  square  and  entered  the  caf6. 

"So  you  think  the  world  has  been  standing  still !  Dieu  de 
Dieu !  I  suppose  you  have  n't  heard  of  the  royal  order  for 
the  convocation  of  the  States  General,  or  the  terms  of  them 
—  that  we  are  to  have  what  we  demanded,  what  you  de- 
manded for  us  here  in  Nantes!  You  have  n't  heard  that  the 
order  has  gone  forth  for  the  primary  elections  —  the  elec- 
tions of  the  electors.  You  have  n't  heard  of  the  fresh  uproar 
in  Rennes,  last  month.  The  order  was  that  the  three  estates 
should  sit  together  at  the  States  General  of  the  bailliages, 
but  in  the  bailliage  of  Rennes  the  nobles  must  ever  be  re- 
calcitrant. They  took  up  arms  actually  —  six  hundred  of 
them  with  their  valetaille,  headed  by  your  old  friend  M.  de 
La  Tour  d'Azyr,  and  they  were  for  slashing  us  —  the  mem- 
bers of  the  Third  Estate  —  into  ribbons  so  as  to  put  an  end 
to  our  insolence."  He  laughed  delicately.  "But,  by  God, 
we  showed  them  that  we,  too,  could  take  up  arms.  It  was 
what  you  yourself  advocated  here  in  Nantes,  last  November. 
We  fought  them  a  pitched  battle  in  the  streets,  under  the 
leadership  of  your  namesake  Moreau,  the  provost,  and  we 
so  peppered  them  that  they  were  glad  to  take  shelter  in  the 
Cordelier  Convent.  That  is  the  end  of  their  resistance  to 
the  royal  authority  and  the  people's  will." 

He  ran  on  at  great  speed  detailing  the  events  that  had 
taken  place,  and  finally  came  to  the  matter  which  had,  he 
announced,  been  causing  him  to  hunt  for  Andre-Louis  until 
he  had  all  but  despaired  of  finding  him. 

Nantes  was  sending  fifty  delegates  to  the  assembly  of 
Rennes  which  was  to  select  the  deputies  to  the  Third  Estate 
and  edit  their  cahier  of  grievances.  Rennes  itself  was  being 
as  fully  represented,  whilst  such  villages  as  Gavrillac  were 
sending  two  delegates  for  every  two  hundred  hearths  or 
less.  Each  of  these  three  had  clamoured  that  Andr£-Louis 
Moreau  should  be  one  of  its  delegates.  Gavrillac  wanted 
him  because  he  belonged  to  the  village,  and  it  was  known 
there  what  sacrifices  he  had  made  in  the  popular  cause; 
Rennes  wanted  him  because  it  had  heard  his  spirited  address 


The  Awakening  185 


on  the  day  of  the  shooting  of  the  students ;  and  Nantes  — 
to  whom  his  identity  was  unknown  —  asked  for  him  as  the 
speaker  who  had  addressed  them  under  the  name  of  Omnes 
Omnibus  and  who  had  framed  for  them  the  memorial  that 
was  believed  so  largely  to  have  influenced  M.  Necker  in 
formulating  the  terms  of  the  convocation. 

Since  he  could  not  be  found,  the  delegations  had  been 
made  up  without  him.  But  now  it  happened  that  one  or 
two  vacancies  had  occurred  in  the  Nantes  representation; 
and  it  was  the  business  of  filling  these  vacancies  that  had 
brought  Le  Chapelier  to  Nantes. 

Andre-Louis  firmly  shook  his  head  in  answer  to  Le  Cha- 
pelier's  proposal. 

"You  refuse?"  the  other  cried.  "Are  you  mad?  Refuse, 
when  you  are  demanded  from  so  many  sides?  Do  you  realize 
that  it  is  more  than  probable  you  will  be  elected  one  of  the 
deputies,  that  you  will  be  sent  to  the  States  General  at  Ver- 
sailles to  represent  us  in  this  work  of  saving  France?" 

But  Andre-Louis,  we  know,  was  not  concerned  to  save 
France.  At  the  moment  he  was  concerned  to  save  two  wo- 
men, both  of  whom  he  loved,  though  in  vastly  different 
ways,  from  a  man  he  had  vowed  to  ruin.  He  stood  firm  in 
his  refusal  until  Le  Chapelier  dejectedly  abandoned  the 
attempt  to  persuade  him. 

"It  is  odd,"  said  Andre-Louis,  "that  I  should  have  been 
so  deeply  immersed  in  trifles  as  never  to  have  perceived  that 
Nantes  is  being  politically  active." 

"Active!  My  friend,  it  is  a  seething  cauldron  of  political 
emotions.  It  is  kept  quiet  on  the  surface  only  by  the  per- 
suasion that  all  goes  well.  At  a  hint  to  the  contrary  it  would 
boil  over." 

"Would  it  so?"  said  Scaramouche,  thoughtfully.  "The 
knowledge  may  be  useful."  And  then  he  changed  the  sub- 
ject. "You  know  that  La  Tour  d'Azyr  is  here?" 

"In  Nantes?  He  has  courage  if  he  shows  himself.  They 
are  not  a  docile  people,  these  Nantais,  and  they  know  his 
record  and  the  part  he  played  in  the  rising  at  Rennes.  I  mar- 


1 86  The  Buskin 


vel  they  have  n't  stoned  him.  But  they  will,  sooner  or  later. 
It  only  needs  that  some  one  should  suggest  it." 

"That  is  very  likely,"  said  Andr6-Louis,  and  smiled. 
"He  does  n't  show  himself  much;  not  in  the  streets,  at  least. 
So  that  he  has  not  the  courage  you  suppose ;  nor  any  kind  of 
courage,  as  I  told  him  once.  He  has  only  insolence." 

At  parting  Le  Chapelier  again  exhorted  him  to  give 
thought  to  what  he  proposed.  "Send  me  word  if  you  change 
your  mind.  I  am  lodged  at  the  Cerf,  and  I  shall  be  here  until 
the  day  after  to-morrow.  If  you  have  ambition,  this  is  your 
moment." 

"I  have  no  ambition,  I  suppose,"  said  Andr6-Louis,  and 
went  his  way. 

That  night  at  the  theatre  he  had  a  mischievous  impulse 
to  test  what  Le  Chapelier  had  told  him  of  the  state  of 
public  feeling  in  the  city.  They  were  playing  "  The  Terrible 
Captain,"  in  the  last  act  of  which  the  empty  cowardice  of 
the  bullying  braggart  Rhodomont  is  revealed  by  Scara- 
mouche. 

After  the  laughter  which  the  exposure  of  the  roaring  cap- 
tain invariably  produced,  it  remained  for  Scaramouche  con- 
temptuously to  dismiss  him  in  a  phrase  that  varied  nightly, 
according  to  the  inspiration  of  the  moment.  This  time  he 
chose  to  give  his  phrase  a  political  complexion: 

"Thus,  O  thrasonical  coward,  is  your  emptiness  exposed. 
Because  of  your  long  length  and  the  great  sword  you  carry 
and  the  angle  at  which  you  cock  your  hat,  people  have  gone 
in  fear  of  you,  have  believed  in  you,  have  imagined  you  to 
be  as  terrible  and  as  formidable  as  you  insolently  make 
yourself  appear.  But  at  the  first  touch  of  true  spirit  you 
crumple  up,  you  tremble,  you  whine  pitifully,  and  the  great 
sword  remains  in  your  scabbard.  You  remind  me  of  the  Priv- 
ileged Orders  when  confronted  by  the  Third  Estate." 

It  was  audacious  of  him,  and  he  was  prepared  for  any- 
thing —  a  laugh,  applause,  indignation,  or  all  together.  But 
he  was  not  prepared  for  what  came.  And  it  came  so  suddenly 
and  spontaneously  from  the  groundlings  and  the  body  of 


The  Awakening  187 


those  in  the  amphitheatre  that  he  was  almost  scared  by  it  — 
as  a  boy  may  be  scared  who  has  held  a  match  to  a  sun- 
scorched  hayrick.  It  was  a  hurricane  of  furious  applause. 
Men  leapt  to  their  feet,  sprang  up  on  to  the  benches,  waving 
their  hats  in  the  air,  deafening  him  with  the  terrific  uproar 
of  their  acclamations.  And  it  rolled  on  and  on,  nor  ceased 
until  the  curtain  fell. 

Scaramouche  stood  meditatively  smiling  with  tight  lips. 
At  the  last  moment  he  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  M.  de  La 
Tour  d'Azyr's  face  thrust  farther  forward  than  usual  from 
the  shadows  of  his  box,  and  it  was  a  face  set  in  anger,  with 
eyes  on  fire. 

"Mon  Dieu!"  laughed  Rhodomont,  recovering  from  the 
real  scare  that  had  succeeded  his  histrionic  terror,  "but  you 
have  a  great  trick  of  tickling  them  in  the  right  place,  Scara- 
mouche." 

Scaramouche  looked  up  at  him  and  smiled.  "It  can  be 
useful  upon  occasion,"  said  he,  and  went  off  to  his  dressing- 
room  to  change. 

But  a  reprimand  awaited  him.  He  was  delayed  at  the 
theatre  by  matters  concerned  with  the  scenery  of  the  new 
piece  they  were  to  mount  upon  the  morrow.  By  the  time  he 
was  rid  of  the  business  the  rest  of  the  company  had  long  since 
left.  He  called  a  chair  and  had  himself  carried  back  to  the 
inn  in  solitary  state.  It  was  one  of  many  minor  luxuries  his 
comparatively  affluent  present  circumstances  permitted. 

Coming  into  that  upstairs  room  that  was  common  to  all 
the  troupe,  he  found  M.  Binet  talking  loudly  and  vehe- 
mently. He  had  caught  sounds  of  his  voice  whilst  yet 
upon  the  stairs.  As  he  entered  Binet  broke  off  short,  and 
wheeled  to  face  him. 

"You  are  here  at  last!"  It  was  so  odd  a  greeting  that 
Andr6-Louis  did  no  more  than  look  his  mild  surprise.  "I 
await  your  explanations  of  the  disgraceful  scene  you  pro- 
voked to-night." 

"Disgraceful?  Is  it  disgraceful  that  the  public  should 
applaud  me?" 


i88  The  Buskin 


"The  public?  The  rabble,  you  mean.  Do  you  want  to 
deprive  us  of  the  patronage  of  all  gentlefolk  by  vulgar  ap- 
peals to  the  low  passions  of  the  mob?" 

Andre-Louis  stepped  past  M.  Binet  and  forward  to  the 
table.  He  shrugged  contemptuously.  The  man  offended 
him,  after  all. 

"You  exaggerate  grossly  —  as  usual." 

"I  do  not  exaggerate.  And  I  am  the  master  in  my  own 
theatre.  This  is  the  Binet  Troupe,  and  it  shall  be  con- 
ducted in  the  Binet  way." 

"Who  are  the  gentlefolk  the  loss  of  whose  patronage  to 
the  Feydau  will  be  so  poignantly  felt?"  asked  Andre-Louis. 

"You  imply  that  there  are  none?  See  how  wrong  you  are. 
After  the  play  to-night  M.  le  Marquis  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr 
came  to  me,  and  spoke  to  me  in  the  severest  terms  about 
your  scandalous  outburst.  I  was  forced  to  apologize, 
and  ...  " 

"The  more  fool  you,"  said  Andre-Louis.  "A  man  who 
respected  himself  would  have  shown  that  gentleman  the 
door."  M.  Binet's  face  began  to  empurple.  "You  call 
yourself  the  head  of  the  Binet  Troupe,  you  boast  that  you 
will  be  master  in  your  own  theatre,  and  you  stand  like  a 
lackey  to  take  the  orders  of  the  first  insolent  fellow  who 
comes  to  your  green-room  to  tell  you  that  he  does  not  like 
a  line  spoken  by  one  of  your  company !  I  say  again  that  had 
you  really  respected  yourself  you  would  have  turned  him 
out." 

There  was  a  murmur  of  approval  from  several  members 
of  the  company,  who,  having  heard  the  arrogant  tone  as- 
sumed by  the  Marquis,  were  filled  with  resentment  against 
the  slur  cast  upon  them  all. 

"And  I  say  further,"  Andre-Louis  went  on,  "that  a  man 
who  respects  himself,  on  quite  other  grounds,  would  have 
been  only  too  glad  to  have  seized  this  pretext  to  show 
M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr  the  door." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?"  There  was  a  rumble  of 
thunder  in  the  question. 


The  Awakening  189 


Andr6-Louis'  eyes  swept  round  the  company  assembled  at 
the  supper-table.  "Where  is  Clim6ne?"  he  asked,  sharply. 

L£andre  leapt  up  to  answer  him,  white  in  the  face,  tense 
and  quivering  with  excitement. 

"She  left  the  theatre  in  the  Marquis  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr's 
carriage  immediately  after  the  performance.  We  heard 
him  offer  to  drive  her  to  this  inn." 

Andre-Louis  glanced  at  the  timepiece  on  the  overmantel. 
He  seemed  unnaturally  calm. 

"That  would  be  an  hour  ago  —  rather  more.  And  she 
has  not  yet  arrived?" 

His  eyes  sought  M.  Binet's.  M.  Binet's  eyes  eluded  his 
glance.  Again  it  was  L£andre  who  answered  him. 

"Not  yet." 

"Ah!"  Andre-Louis  sat  down,  and  poured  himself  wine. 
There  was  an  oppressive  silence  in  the  room.  L6andre 
watched  him  expectantly,  Columbine  commiseratingly. 
Even  M.  Binet  appeared  to  be  waiting  for  a  cue  from  Scara- 
mouche.  But  Scaramouche  disappointed  him.  "Have  you 
left  me  anything  to  eat?"  he  asked. 

Platters  were  pushed  towards  him.  He  helped  himself 
calmly  to  food,  and  ate  in  silence,  apparently  with  a  good 
appetite.  M.  Binet  sat  down,  poured  himself  wine,  and 
drank.  Presently  he  attempted  to  make  conversation  with 
one  and  another.  He  was  answered  curtly,  in  monosyl- 
lables. M.  Binet  did  not  appear  to  be  in  favour  with  his 
troupe  that  night. 

At  long  length  came  a  rumble  of  wheels  below  and  a 
rattle  of  halting  hooves.  Then  voices,  the  high,  trilling 
laugh  of  Climene  floating  upwards.  Andr£-Louis  went  on 
eating  unconcernedly. 

"What  an  actor!"  said  Harlequin  under  his  breath  to 
Polichinelle,  and  Polichinelle  nodded  gloomily. 

She  came  in,  a  leading  lady  taking  the  stage,  head  high, 
chin  thrust  forward,  eyes  dancing  with  laughter;  she  ex- 
pressed triumph  and  arrogance.  Her  cheeks  were  flushed, 
and  there  was  some  disorder  in  the  mass  of  nut-brown  hair 


190  The  Buskin 


that  crowned  her  head.  In  her  left  hand  she  carried  an 
enormous  bouquet  of  white  camellias.  On  its  middle  finger 
a  diamond  of  great  price  drew  almost  at  once  by  its  ef- 
fulgence the  eyes  of  all. 

Her  father  sprang  to  meet  her  with  an  unusual  display  of 
paternal  tenderness.  "At  last,  my  child!" 

He  conducted  her  to  the  table.  She  sank  into  a  chair,  a 
little  wearily,  a  little  nervelessly,  but  the  smile  did  not 
leave  her  face,  not  even  when  she  glanced  across  at  Scara- 
mouche.  It  was  only  L£andre,  observing  her  closely,  with 
hungry,  scowling  stare,  who  detected  something  as  of  fear 
in  the  hazel  eyes  momentarily  seen  between  the  fluttering 
of  her  lids. 

Andr6-Louis,  however,  still  went  on  eating  stolidly, 
without  so  much  as  a  look  in  her  direction.  Gradually  the 
company  came  to  realize  that  just  as  surely  as  a  scene  was 
brooding,  just  so  surely  would  there  be  no  scene  as  long  as 
they  remained.  It  was  Polichinelle,  at  last,  who  gave  the 
signal  by  rising  and  withdrawing,  and  within  two  minutes 
none  remained  in  the  room  but  M.  Binet,  his  daughter,  and 
Andr6-Louis.  And  then,  at  last,  Andr£-Louis  set  down  knife 
and  fork,  washed  his  throat  with  a  draught  of  Burgundy, 
and  sat  back  in  his  chair  to  consider  Climene. 

"I  trust,"  said  he,  "that  you  had  a  pleasant  ride,  made- 
moiselle." 

"Most  pleasant,  monsieur."  Impudently  she  strove  to 
emulate  his  coolness,  but  did  not  completely  succeed. 

"And  not  unprofitable,  if  I  may  judge  that  jewel  at  this 
distance.  It  should  be  worth  at  least  a  couple  of  hundred 
louis,  and  that  is  a  formidable  sum  even  to  so  wealthy  a 
nobleman  as  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr.  Would  it  be  imperti- 
nent in  one  who  has  had  some  notion  of  becoming  your 
husband,  to  ask  you,  mademoiselle,  what  you  have  given 
him  in  return?" 

M.  Binet  uttered  a  gross  laugh,  a  queer  mixture  of  cyn- 
icism and  contempt. 

"I  have  given  nothing,"  said  Climene,  indignantly. 


The  Awakening  191 


"Ah!  Then  the  jewel  is  in  the  nature  of  a  payment  in 
advance." 

"My  God,  man,  you're  not  decent!"  M.  Binet  protested. 

"Decent?"  Andr6-Louis'  smouldering  eyes  turned  to 
discharge  upon  M.  Binet  such  a  fulmination  of  contempt 
that  the  old  scoundrel  shifted  uncomfortably  in  his  chair. 
"Did  you  mention  decency,  Binet?  Almost  you  make  me 
lose  my  temper,  which  is  a  thing  that  I  detest  above  all 
others!"  Slowly  his  glance  returned  to  Climene,  who  sat 
with  elbows  on  the  table,  her  chin  cupped  in  her  palms,  re- 
garding him  with  something  between  scorn  and  defiance. 
"Mademoiselle,"  he  said,  slowly,  "I  desire  you  purely  in 
your  own  interests  to  consider  whither  you  are  going." 

"I  am  well  able  to  consider  it  for  myself,  and  to  decide 
without  advice  from  you,  monsieur." 

"And  now  you've  got  your  answer,"  chuckled  Binet.  "I 
hope  you  like  it." 

Andr6-Louis  had  paled  a  little;  there  was  incredulity  in 
his  great  sombre  eyes  as  they  continued  steadily  to  regard 
her.  Of  M.  Binet  he  took  no  notice. 

"Surely,  mademoiselle,  you  cannot  mean  that  willingly, 
with  open  eyes  and  a  full  understanding  of  what  you  do, 
you  would  exchange  an  honourable  wifehood  for  .  . J.  for  the 
thing  that  such  men  as  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr  may  have  in 
store  for  you?" 

M.  Binet  made  a  wide  gesture,  and  swung  to  his  daughter. 
"You  hear  him,  the  mealy-mouthed  prude!  Perhaps  you '11 
believe  at  last  that  marriage  with  him  would  be  the  ruin  of 
you.  He  would  always  be  there  —  the  inconvenient  hus- 
band —  to  mar  your  every  chance,  my  girl." 

She  tossed  her  lovely  head  in  agreement  with  her  father. 
"I  begin  to  find  him  tiresome  with  his  silly  jealousies,"  she 
confessed.  "As  a  husband  I  am  afraid  he  would  be  im- 
possible." 

Andr£-Louis  felt  a  constriction  of  the  heart.  But  —  al- 
ways the  actor  —  he  showed  nothing  of  it.  He  laughed  a 
little,  not  very  pleasantly,  and  rose. 


192  The  Buskin 


"I  bow  to  your  choice,  mademoiselle.  I  pray  that  you 
may  not  regret  it." 

"Regret  it?"  cried  M.  Binet.  He  was  laughing,  relieved 
to  see  his  daughter  at  last  rid  of  this  suitor  of  whom  he  had 
never  approved,  if  we  except  those  few  hours  when  he  really 
believed  him  to  be  an  eccentric  of  distinction.  "And  what 
shall  she  regret?  That  she  accepted  the  protection  of  a 
nobleman  so  powerful  and  wealthy  that  as  a  mere  trinket 
he  gives  her  a  jewel  worth  as  much  as  an  actress  earns  in  a 
year  at  the  Comedie  Franchise?"  He  got  up,  and  advanced 
towards  Andr£-Louis.  His  mood  became  conciliatory. 
"Come,  come,  my  friend,  no  rancour  now.  What  the  devil! 
You  would  n't  stand  in  the  girl's  way?  You  can't  really 
blame  her  for  making  this  choice?  Have  you  thought  what 
it  means  to  her?  Have  you  thought  that  under  the  pro- 
tection of  such  a  gentleman  there  are  no  heights  which  she 
may  not  reach?  Don't  you  see  the  wonderful  luck  of  it? 
Surely,  if  you  're  fond  of  her,  particularly  being  of  a  jealous 
temperament,  you  would  n't  wish  it  otherwise?" 

Andr6-Louis  looked  at  him  in  silence  for  a  long  moment. 
Then  he  laughed  again.  "Oh,  you  are  fantastic,"  he  said. 
"You  are  not  real."  He  turned  on  his  heel  and  strode  to 
the  door. 

The  action,  and  more  the  contempt  of  his  look,  laugh, 
and  words  stung  M.  Binet  to  passion,  drove  out  the  con- 
ciliatoriness  of  his  mood. 

"Fantastic,  are  we?"  he  cried,  turning  to  follow  the  de- 
parting Scaramouche  with  his  little  eyes  that  now  were 
inexpressibly  evil.  "Fantastic  that  we  should  prefer  the 
powerful  protection  of  this  great  nobleman  to  marriage  with 
a  beggarly,  nameless  bastard.  Oh,  we  are  fantastic!" 

Andr6-Louis  turned,  his  hand  upon  the  door-handle. 
"No,"  he  said,  "I  was  mistaken.  You  are  not  fantastic. 
You  are  just  vile  —  both  of  you."  And  he  went  out. 


CHAPTER  X 
CONTRITION 

MLLE.  DE  KERCADIOU  walked  with  her  aunt  in  the  bright 
morning  sunshine  of  a  Sunday  in  March  on  the  broad  ter- 
race of  the  Chateau  de  Sautron. 

For  one  of  her  natural  sweetness  of  disposition  she  had 
been  oddly  irritable  of  late,  manifesting  signs  of  a  cynical 
worldliness,  which  convinced  Mme.  de  Sautron  more  than 
ever  that  her  brother  Quintin  had  scandalously  conducted 
the  child's  education.  She  appeared  to  be  instructed  in  all 
the  things  of  which  a  girl  is  better  ignorant,  and  ignorant  of 
all  the  things  that  a  girl  should  know.  That  at  least  was  the 
point  of  view  of  Mme.  de  Sautron. 

"Tell  me,  madame,"  quoth  Aline,  "are  all  men  beasts?" 

Unlike  her  brother,  Madame  la  Comtesse  was  tall  and 
majestically  built.  In  the  days  before  her  marriage  with 
M.  de  Sautron,  ill-natured  folk  described  her  as  the  only 
man  in  the  family.  She  looked  down  now  from  her  noble 
height  upon  her  little  niece  with  startled  eyes. 

"Really,  Aline,  you  have  a  trick  of  asking  the  most  dis- 
concerting and  improper  questions." 

"Perhaps  it  is  because  I  find  life  disconcerting  and  im- 
proper." 

"Life?  A  young  girl  should  not  discuss  life." 

"Why  not,  since  I  am  alive?  You  do  not  suggest  that  it  is 
an  impropriety  to  be  alive?" 

"  It  is  an  impropriety  for  a  young  unmarried  girl  to  seek  to 
know  too  much  about  life.  As  for  your  absurd  question  about 
men,  when  I  remind  you  that  man  is  the  noblest  work  of 
God,  perhaps  you  will  consider  yourself  answered." 

Mme.  de  Sautron  did  not  invite  a  pursuance  of  the  sub- 
ject. But  Mile,  de  Kercadiou's  outrageous  rearing  had  made 
her  headstrong. 

"That  being  so,"  said  she,  "will  you  tell  me  why  they  find 


194  The  Buskin 


such  an  overwhelming  attraction  in  the  immodest  of  our 
sex?" 

Madame  stood  still  and  raised  shocked  hands.  Then  she 
looked  down  her  handsome,  high-bridged  nose. 

"Sometimes  —  often,  in  fact,  my  dear  Aline  —  you  pass 
all  understanding.  I  shall  write  to  Quintin  that  the  sooner 
you  are  married  the  better  it  will  be  for  all." 

"Uncle  Quintin  has  left  that  matter  to  my  own  deciding," 
Aline  reminded  her. 

"That,"  said  madame  with  complete  conviction,  "is  the 
last  and  most  outrageous  of  his  errors.  Whoever  heard  of  a 
girl  being  left  to  decide  the  matter  of  her  own  marriage?  It 
is  ...  indelicate  almost  to  expose  her  to  thoughts  of  such 
things."  Mme.  de  Sautron  shuddered.  "Quintin  is  a  boor. 
His  conduct  is  unheard-of.  That  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr 
should  parade  himself  before  you  so  that  you  may  make  up 
your  mind  whether  he  is  the  proper  man  for  you!"  Again 
she  shuddered.  "It  is  of  a  grossness,  of  ...  of  a  prurience 
almost  .  .  .  Mon  Dieu !  When  I  married  your  uncle,  all  this 
was  arranged  between  our  parents.  I  first  saw  him  when  he 
came  to  sign  the  contract.  I  should  have  died  of  shame  had 
it  been  otherwise.  And  that  is  how  these  affairs  should  be 
conducted." 

"You  are  no  doubt  right,  madame.  But  since  that  is 
not  how  my  own  case  is  being  conducted,  you  will  forgive 
me  if  I  deal  with  it  apart  from  others.  M.  de  La  Tour 
d'Azyr  desires  to  marry  me.  He  has  been  permitted  to  pay 
his  court.  I  should  be  glad  to  have  him  informed  that  he 
may  cease  to  do  so." 

Mme.  de  Sautron  stood  still,  petrified  by  amazement. 
Her  long  face  turned  white;  she  seemed  to  breathe  with 
difficulty. 

"But  .  .  .  but  .  .  .  what  are  you  saying?"  she  gasped. 

Quietly  Aline  repeated  her  statement. 

"But  this  is  outrageous!  You  cannot  be  permitted  to 
play  fast-and-loose  with  a  gentleman  of  M.  le  Marquis* 
quality !  Why,  it  is  little  more  than  a  week  since  you  per- 


Contrition  195 


mitted  him  to  be  informed  that  you  would  become  his  wife!" 

"I  did  so  in  a  moment  of  ...  rashness.  Since  then  M.  le 
Marquis'  own  conduct  has  convinced  me  of  my  error." 

"But  —  mon  Dieu!"  cried  the  Countess.  "Are  you  blind 
to  the  great  honour  that  is  being  paid  you?  M.  le  Marquis 
will  make  you  the  first  lady  in  Brittany.  Yet,  little  fool  that 
you  are,  and  greater  fool  that  Quintin  is,  you  trifle  with  this 
extraordinary  good  fortune !  Let  me  warn  you."  She  raised 
an  admonitory  forefinger.  "If  you  continue  in  this  stupid 
humour  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr  may  definitely  withdraw  his 
offer  and  depart  in  justified  mortification." 

"That,  madame,  as  I  am  endeavouring  to  convey  to  you, 
is  what  I  most  desire." 

"Oh,  you  are  mad." 

"It  may  be,  madame,  that  I  am  sane  in  preferring  to  be 
guided  by  my  instincts.  It  may  be  even  that  I  am  justified 
in  resenting  that  the  man  who  aspires  to  become  my  hus- 
band should  at  the  same  time  be  paying  such  assiduous  hom- 
age to  a  wretched  theatre  girl  at  the  Feydau." 

"Aline!" 

"  Is  it  not  true?  Or  perhaps  you  do  not  find  it  strange  that 
M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr  should  so  conduct  himself  at  such  a 
time?" 

"Aline,  you  are  so  extraordinary  a  mixture.  At  moments 
you  shock  me  by  the  indecency  of  your  expressions ;  at  others 
you  amaze  me  by  the  excess  of  your  prudery.  You  have  been 
brought  up  like  a  little  bourgeoise,  I  think.  Yes,  that  is  it  — 
a  little  bourgeoise.  Quintin  was  always  something  of  a  shop- 
keeper at  heart." 

"I  was  asking  your  opinion  on  the  conduct  of  M.  de  La 
Tour  d'Azyr,  madame.  Not  on  my  own." 

"But  it  is  an  indelicacy  in  you  to  observe  such  things. 
You  should  be  ignorant  of  them,  and  I  can't  think  who  is 
so  ...  so  unfeeling  as  to  inform  you.  But  since  you  are  in- 
formed, at  least  you  should  be  modestly  blind  to  things  that 
take  place  outside  the  .  .  .  orbit  of  a  properly  conducted 
demoiselle." 


196  The  Buskin 


"Will  they  still  be  outside  my  orbit  when  I  am  married?" 

"  If  you  are  wise.  You  should  remain  without  knowledge  of 
them.  It  ...  it  deflowers  your  innocence.  I  would  not  for 
the  world  that  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr  should  know  you  so 
extraordinarily  instructed.  Had  you  been  properly  reared  in 
a  convent  this  would  never  have  happened  to  you." 

"But  you  do  not  answer  me,  madame!"  cried  Aline  in 
despair.  "  It  is  not  my  chastity  that  is  in  question ;  but  that 
of  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr." 

' '  Chastity ! ' '  Madame's  lips  trembled  with  horror.  Horror 
overspread  her  face.  "Wherever  did  you  learn  that  dread- 
ful, that  so  improper  word?" 

And  then  Mme.  de  Sautron  did  violence  to  her  feelings. 
She  realized  that  here  great  calm  and  prudence  were  re- 
quired. "My  child,  since  you  know  so  much  that  you  ought 
not  to  know,  there  can  be  no  harm  in  my  adding  that  a  gen- 
tleman must  have  these  little  distractions." 

"But  why,  madame?  Why  is  it  so?" 

"Ah,  mon  Dieu,  you  are  asking  me  riddles  of  nature.  It  is 
so  because  it  is  so.  Because  men  are  like  that." 

"Because  men  are  beasts,  you  mean  —  which  is  what  I 
began  by  asking  you." 

"You  are  incorrigibly  stupid,  Aline." 

"You  mean  that  I  do  not  see  things  as  you  do,  madame. 
I  am  not  over-expectant  as  you  appear  to  think;  yet  surely  I 
have  the  right  to^  expect  that  whilst  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr  is 
wooing  me,  he  shall  not  be  wooing  at  the  same  time  a  drab  of 
the  theatre.  I  feel  that  in  this  there  is  a  subtle  association  of 
myself  with  that  unspeakable  creature  which  soils  and  insults 
me.  The  Marquis  is  a  dullard  whose  wooing  takes  the  form 
at  best  of  stilted  compliments,  stupid  and  unoriginal.  They 
gain  nothing  when  they  fall  from  lips  still  warm  from  the 
contamination  of  that  woman's  kisses." 

So  utterly  scandalized  was  madame  that  for  a  moment 
she  remained  speechless.  Then  — 

"Mon  Dieu!"  she  exclaimed.  "I  should  never  have  sus- 
pected you  of  so  indelicate  an  imagination." 


Contrition  197 


"I  cannot  help  it,  madame.  Each  time  his  lips  touch  my 
fingers  I  find  myself  thinking  of  the  last  object  that  they 
touched.  I  at  once  retire  to  wash  my  hands.  Next  time, 
madame,  unless  you  are  good  enough  to  convey  my  message 
to  him,  I  shall  call  for  water  and  wash  them  in  his  presence." 

"But  what  am  I  to  tell  him?  How  ...  in  what  words 
can  I  convey  such  a  message?"  Madame  was  aghast. 

"Be  frank  with  him,  madame.  It  is  easiest  in  the  end. 
Tell  him  that  however  impure  may  have  been  his  life  in  the 
past,  however  impure  he  intend  that  it  shall  be  in  the  future, 
he  must  at  least  study  purity  whilst  approaching  with  a  view 
to  marriage  a  virgin  who  is  herself  pure  and  without  stain." 

Madame  recoiled,  and  put  her  hands  to  her  ears,  horror 
stamped  on  her  handsome  face.  Her  massive  bosom  heaved. 

' '  Oh ,  how  can  you  ? ' '  she  panted .  ' '  How  can  you  make  use 
of  such  terrible  expressions?  Wherever  have  you  learnt 
them?" 

"In  church,"  said  Aline. 

"Ah,  but  in  church  many  things  are  said  that  .  .  .  that 
one  would  not  dream  of  saying  in  the  world.  My  dear  child, 
how  could  I  possibly  say  such  a  thing  to  M.  le  Marquis? 
How  could  I  possibly?" 

"Shall  I  say  it?" 

"Aline!" 

"Well,  there  it  is,"  said  Aline.  "Something  must  be  done 
to  shelter  me  from  insult.  I  am  utterly  disgusted  with 
M.  le  Marquis  —  a  disgusting  man.  And  however  fine  a 
thing  it  may  be  to  become  Marquise  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr, 
why,  frankly,  I'd  sooner  marry  a  cobbler  who  practised 
decency." 

Such  was  her  vehemence  and  obvious  determination  that 
Mme.  de  Sautron  fetched  herself  out  of  her  despair  to  at- 
tempt persuasion.  Aline  was  her  niece,  and  such  a  marriage 
in  the  family  would  be  to  the  credit  of  the  whole  of  it.  At  all 
costs  nothing  must  frustrate  it. 

"Listen,  my  dear,"  she  said.  "Let  us  reason.  M.  le 
Marquis  is  away  and  will  not  be  back  until  to-morrow." 


198  The  Buskin 


"True.  And  I  know  where  he  has  gone  —  or  at  least 
whom  he  has  gone  with.  Mon  Dieu,  and  the  drab  has  a 
father  and  a  lout  of  a  fellow  who  intends  to  make  her  his 
wife,  and  neither  of  them  chooses  to  do  anything.  I  suppose 
they  agree  with  you,  madame,  that  a  great  gentleman  must 
have  his  little  distractions."  Her  contempt  was  as  scorching 
as  a  thing  of  fire.  "However,  madame,  you  were  about  to 
say?" 

"That  on  the  day  after  to-morrow  you  are  returning  to 
Gavrillac.  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr  will  most  likely  follow  at 
his  leisure." 

"You  mean  when  this  dirty  candle  is  burnt  out?" 

"Call  it  what  you  will."  Madame,  you  see,  despaired  by 
now  of  controlling  the  impropriety  of  her  niece's  expressions. 
"At  Gavrillac  there  will  be  no  Mile.  Binet.  This  thing  will 
be  in  the  past.  It  is  unfortunate  that  he  should  have  met 
her  at  such  a  moment.  The  chit  is  very  attractive,  after  all. 
You  cannot  deny  that.  And  you  must  make  allowances." 

"M.  le  Marquis  formally  proposed  to  me  a  week  ago. 
Partly  to  satisfy  the  wishes  of  the  family,  and  partly  ..." 
She  broke  off,  hesitating  a  moment,  to  resume  on  a  note  of 
dull  pain,  "Partly  because  it  does  not  seem  greatly  to  matter 
whom  I  marry,  I  gave  him  my  consent.  That  consent,  for  the 
reasons  I  have  given  you,  madame,  I  desire  now  definitely  to 
withdraw." 

Madame  fell  into  agitation  of  the  wildest.  "Aline,  I  should 
never  forgive  you !  Your  uncle  Quintin  would  be  in  despair. 
You  do  not  know  what  you  are  saying,  what  a  wonderful 
thing  you  are  refusing.  Have  you  no  sense  of  your  position, 
of  the  station  into  which  you  were  born?" 

"If  I  had  not,  madame,  I  should  have  made  an  end  long 
since.  If  I  have  tolerated  this  suit  for  a  single  moment,  it  is 
because  I  realize  the  importance  of  a  suitable  marriage  in 
the  worldly  sense.  But  I  ask  of  marriage  something  more; 
and  Uncle  Quintin  has  placed  the  decision  in  my  hands." 

"God  forgive  him!"  said  madame.  And  then  she  hurried 
on:  "Leave  this  to  me  now,  Aline.  Be  guided  by  me  —  oh, 


Contrition  199 


be  guided  by  me!"  Her  tone  was  beseeching.  "I  will  take 
counsel  with  your  uncle  Charles.  But  do  not  definitely 
decide  until  this  unfortunate  affair  has  blown  over.  Charles 
will  know  how  to  arrange  it.  M.  le  Marquis  shall  do  pen- 
ance, child,  since  your  tyranny  demands  it;  but  not  in  sack- 
cloth and  ashes.  You'll  not  ask  so  much?" 

Aline  shrugged.  "I  ask  nothing  at  all,"  she  said,  which 
was  neither  assent  nor  dissent. 

So  Mme.  de  Sautron  interviewed  her  husband,  a  slight, 
middle-aged  man,  very  aristocratic  in  appearance  and 
gifted  with  a  certain  shrewd  sense.  She  took  with  him 
precisely  the  tone  that  Aline  had  taken  with  herself  and 
which  in  Aline  she  had  found  so  disconcertingly  indelicate. 
She  even  borrowed  several  of  Aline's  phrases. 

The  result  was  that  on  the  Monday  afternoon  when  at 
last  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr's  returning  berline  drove  up  to 
the  chateau,  he  was  met  by  M.  le  Comte  de  Sautron  who 
desired  a  word  with  him  even  before  he  changed. 

"Gervais,  you're  a  fool,"  was  the  excellent  opening  made 
by  M.  le  Comte. 

"Charles,  you  give  me  no  news,"  answered  M.  le  Marquis. 
"Of  what  particular  folly  do  you  take  the  trouble  to  com- 
plain?" 

He  flung  himself  wearily  upon  a  sofa,  and  his  long  graceful 
body  sprawling  there  he  looked  up  at  his  friend  with  a  tired 
smile  on  that  nobly  handsome  pale  face  that  seemed  to  defy- 
the  onslaught  of  age. 

"Of  your  last.  This  Binet  girl." 

"That!  Pooh!  An  incident;  hardly  a  folly." 

"A  folly  —  at  such  a  time,"  Sautron  insisted.  The  Mar- 
quis looked  a  question.  The  Count  answered  it.  "Aline," 
said  he,  pregnantly.  "She  knows.  How  she  knows  I  can't 
tell  you,  but  she  knows,  and  she  is  deeply  offended." 

The  smile  perished  on  the  Marquis'  face.  He  gathered 
himself  up. 

"Offended?"  said  he,  and  his  voice  was  anxious. 

"  But  yes.  You  know  what  she  is.  You  know  the  ideals  she 


2OO  The  Buskin 


has  formed.  It  wounds  her  that  at  such  a  time  —  whilst  you 
are  here  for  the  purpose  of  wooing  her  —  you  should  at  the 
same  time  be  pursuing  this  affair  with  that  chit  of  a  Binet 
girl." 

"How  do  you  know?"  asked  La  Tour  d'Azyr. 

"She  has  confided  in  her  aunt.  And  the  poor  child  seems 
to  have  some  reason.  She  says  she  will  not  tolerate  that 
you  should  come  to  kiss  her  hand  with  lips  that  are  still  con- 
taminated from  .  .  .  Oh,  you  understand.  You  appreciate 
the  impression  of  such  a  thing  upon  a  pure,  sensitive  girl 
such  as  Aline.  She  said  —  I  had  better  tell  you  —  that  the 
next  time  you  kiss  her  hand,  she  will  call  for  water  and 
wash  it  in  your  presence." 

The  Marquis'  face  flamed  scarlet.  He  rose.  Knowing  his 
violent,  intolerant  spirit,  M.  de  Sautron  was  prepared  for 
an  outburst.  But  no  outburst  came.  The  Marquis  turned 
away  from  him,  and  paced  slowly  to  the  window,  his  head 
bowed,  his  hands  behind  his  back.  Halted  there  he  spoke, 
without  turning,  his  voice  was  at  once  scornful  and  wistful. 

''You  are  right,  Charles,  I  am  a  fool  —  a  wicked  fool! 
I  have  just  enough  sense  left  to  perceive  it.  It  is  the  way  I 
have  lived,  I  suppose.  I  have  never  known  the  need  to  deny 
myself  anything  I  wanted."  Then  suddenly  he  swung  round, 
and  the  outburst  came.  "But,  my  God,  I  want  Aline  as  I 
have  never  wanted  anything  yet !  I  think  I  should  kill  my- 
self in  rage  if  through  my  folly  I  should  have  lost  her." 
He  struck  his  brow  with  his  hand.  "  I  am  a  beast!"  he  said. 
"I  should  have  known  that  if  that  sweet  saint  got  word  of 
these  petty  devilries  of  mine  she  would  despise  me ;  and  I  tell 
you,  Charles,  I'd  go  through  fire  to  regain  her  respect." 

"I  hope  it  is  to  be  regained  on  easier  terms,"  said  Charles; 
and  then  to  ease  the  situation  which  began  to  irk  him  by  its 
solemnity,  he  made  a  feeble  joke.  "  It  is  merely  asked  of  you 
that  you  refrain  from  going  through  certain  fires  that  are 
not  accounted  by  mademoiselle  of  too  purifying  a  nature." 

"As  to  that  Binet  girl,  it  is  finished  —  finished,"  said  the 
Marquis. 


Contrition  201 


"  I  congratulate  you.  When  did  you  make  that  decision? " 

"This  moment.  I  would  to  God  I  had  made  it  twenty- 
four  hours  ago.  As  it  is  — ''  he  shrugged  —  "why,  twenty- 
four  hours  of  her  have  been  enough  for  me  as  they  would 
have  been  for  any  man  —  a  mercenary,  self-seeking  little 
baggage  with  the  soul  of  a  trull.  Bah!"  He  shuddered  in 
disgust  of  himself  and  her. 

"Ah!  That  makes  it  easier  for  you,"  said  M.  de  Sautron, 
cynically. 

"Don't  say  it,  Charles.  It  is  not  so.  Had  you  been  less  of 
a  fool,  you  would  have  warned  me  sooner." 

"I  may  prove  to  have  warned  you  soon  enough  if  you'll 
profit  by  the  warning." 

"There  is  no  penance  I  will  not  do.  I  will  prostrate  my- 
self at  her  feet.  I  will  abase  myself  before  her.  I  will  make 
confession  in  the  proper  spirit  of  contrition,  and  Heaven 
helping  me,  I  '11  keep  to  my  purpose  of  amendment  for  her 
sweet  sake."  He  was  tragically  in  earnest. 

To  M.  de  Sautron,  who  had  never  seen  him  other  than 
self-contained,  supercilious,  and  mocking,  this  was  an  amaz- 
ing revelation.  He  shrank  from  it  almost;  it  gave  him  the 
feeling  of  prying,  of  peeping  through  a  keyhole.  He  slapped 
his  friend's  shoulder. 

"My  dear  Gervais,  here  is  a  magnificently  romantic 
mood.  Enough  said.  Keep  to  it,  and  I  promise  you  that  all 
will  presently  be  well.  I  will  be  your  ambassador,  and  you 
shall  have  no  cause  to  complain." 

"But  may  I  not  go  to  her  myself?" 

"If  you  are  wise  you  will  at  once  efface  yourself.  Write 
to  her  if  you  will  —  make  your  act  of  contrition  by  letter.  I 
will  explain  why  you  have  gone  without  seeing  her.  I  will 
tell  her  that  you  did  so  upon  my  advice,  and  I  will  do  it 
tactfully.  I  am  a  good  diplomat,  Gervais.  Trust  me." 

M.  le  Marquis  raised  his  head,  and  showed  a  face  that 
pain  was  searing.  He  held  out  his  hand.  "Very  well,  Charles. 
Serve  me  in  this,  and  count  me  your  friend  in  all  things." 


CHAPTER  XI 

^ 

THE  FRACAS  AT  THE  THEATRE  FEYDAU 

LEAVING  his  host  to  act  as  his  plenipotentiary  with  Made- 
moiselle de  Kercadiou,  and  to  explain  to  her  that  it  was  his 
profound  contrition  that  compelled  him  to  depart  without 
taking  formal  leave  of  her,  the  Marquis  rolled  away  from 
Sautron  in  a  cloud  of  gloom.  Twenty-four  hours  with  La 
Binet  had  been  more  than  enough  for  a  man  of  his  fastidious 
and  discerning  taste.  He  looked  back  upon  the  episode  with 
nausea — the  inevitable  psychological  reaction  —  marvelling 
at  himself  that  until  yesterday  he  should  have  found  her  so 
desirable,  and  cursing  himself  that  for  the  sake  of  that  ephem- 
eral and  worthless  gratification  he  should  seriously  have 
imperilled  his  chances  of  winning  Mademoiselle  de  Kerca- 
diou to  wife.  There  is,  after  all,  nothing  very  extraordinary 
in  his  frame  of  mind,  so  that  I  need  not  elaborate  it  further. 
It  resulted  from  the  conflict  between  the  beast  and  the 
angel  that  go  to  make  up  the  composition  of  every  man. 

The  Chevalier  de  Chabrillane  —  who  in  reality  occupied 
towards  the  Marquis  a  position  akin  to  that  of  gentleman- 
in-waiting  —  sat  opposite  to  him  in  the  enormous  travelling 
berline.  A  small  folding  table  had  been  erected  between 
them,  and  the  Chevalier  suggested  piquet.  But  M.  le 
Marquis  was  in  no  humour  for  cards.  His  thoughts  absorbed 
him.  As  they  were  rattling  over  the  cobbles  of  Nantes' 
streets,  he  remembered  a  promise  to  La  Binet  to  witness  her 
performance  that  night  in  "The  Faithless  Lover."  And  now 
he  was  running  away  from  her.  The  thought  was  repugnant 
to  him  on  two  scores.  He  was  breaking  his  pledged  word, 
and  he  was  acting  like  a  coward.  And  there  was  more  than 
that.  He  had  led  the  mercenary  little  strumpet  —  it  was 
thus  he  thought  of  her  at  present,  and  with  some  justice  — 
to  expect  favours  from  him  in  addition  to  the  lavish  awards 


The  Fracas  at  the  Theatre  Feydau         203 

which  already  he  had  made  her.  The  baggage  had  almost 
sought  to  drive  a  bargain  with  him  as  to  her  future.  He  was 
to  take  her  to  Paris,  put  her  into  her  own  furniture  —  as  the 
expression  ran,  and  still  runs  —  and  under  the  shadow  of  his 
powerful  protection  see  that  the  doors  of  the  great  theatres 
of  the  capital  should  be  opened  to  her  talents.  He  had  not 
—  he  was  thankful  to  reflect  —  exactly  committed  himself. 
But  neither  had  he  definitely  refused  her.  It  became  neces- 
sary now  to  come  to  an  understanding,  since  he  was  com- 
pelled to  choose  between  his  trivial  passion  for  her  —  a 
passion  quenched  already  —  and  his  deep,  almost  spiritual 
devotion  to  Mademoiselle  de  Kercadiou. 

His  honour,  he  considered,  demanded  of  him  that  he 
should  at  once  deliver  himself  from  a  false  position.  La  Binet 
would  make  a  scene,  of  course;  but  he  knew  the  proper 
specific  to  apply  to  hysteria  of  that  nature.  Money,  after  all, 
has  its  uses. 

He  pulled  the  cord.  The  carriage  rolled  to  a  standstill;  a 
footman  appeared  at  the  door. 

"To  the  Th&itre  Feydau,"  said  he. 

The  footman  vanished  and  the  berline  rolled  on.  M.  de 
Chabrillane  laughed  cynically. 

"I'll  trouble  you  not  to  be  amused,"  snapped  the  Mar- 
quis. "You  don't  understand."  Thereafter  he  explained 
himself.  It  was  a  rare  condescension  in  him.  But,  then,  he 
could  not  bear  to  be  misunderstood  in  such  a  matter. 
Chabrillane  grew  serious  in  reflection  of  the  Marquis'  ex- 
treme seriousness. 

"Why  not  write?"  he  suggested.  "Myself,  I  confess  that 
I  should  find  it  easier." 

Nothing  could  better  have  revealed  M.  le  Marquis'  state 
of  mind  than  his  answer. 

"Letters  are  liable  both  to  miscarriage  and  to  miscon- 
struction. Two  risks  I  will  not  run.  If  she  did  not  answer, 
I  should  never  know  which  had  been  incurred.  And  I  shall 
have  no  peace  of  mind  until  I  know  that  I  have  set  a  term 
to  this  affair.  The  berline  can  wait  while  we  are  at  the 


2O4  The  Buskin 


theatre.  We  will  go  on  afterwards.  We  will  travel  all  night 
if  necessary." 

"Peste!"  said  M.  de  Chabrillane  with  a  grimace.  But 
that  was  all. 

The  great  travelling  carriage  drew  up  at  the  lighted  por- 
tals of  the  Feydau,  and  M.  le  Marquis  stepped  out.  He 
entered  the  theatre  with  Chabrillane,  all  unconsciously  to 
deliver  himself  into  the  hands  of  Andr6-Louis. 

Andr6-Louis  was  in  a  state  of  exasperation  produced  by 
Climene's  long  absence  from  Nantes  in  the  company  of 
M.  le  Marquis,  and  fed  by  the  unspeakable  complacency 
with  which  M.  Binet  regarded  that  event  of  quite  unmis- 
takable import. 

However  much  he  might  affect  the  frame  of  mind  of  the 
stoics,  and  seek  to  judge  with  a  complete  detachment,  in 
the  heart  and  soul  of  him  Andre-Louis  was  tormented  and 
revolted.  It  was  not  Climene  he  blamed.  He  had  been  mis- 
taken in  her.  She  was  just  a  poor  weak  vessel  driven  help- 
lessly by  the  first  breath,  however  foul,  that  promised  her 
advancement.  She  suffered  from  the  plague  of  greed;  and 
he  congratulated  himself  upon  having  discovered  it  before 
making  her  his  wife.  He  felt  for  her  now  nothing  but  a  deal 
of  pity  and  some  contempt.  The  pity  was  begotten  of  the 
love  she  had  lately  inspired  in  him.  It  might  be  likened  to 
the  dregs  of  love,  all  that  remained  after  the  potent  wine  of 
it  had  been  drained  off.  His  anger  he  reserved  for  her 
father  and  her  seducer. 

The  thoughts  that  were  stifring  in  him  on  that  Monday 
morning,  when  it  was  discovered  that  Climene  had  not  yet 
returned  from  her  excursion  of  the  previous  day  in  the  coach 
of  M.  le  Marquis,  were  already  wicked  enough  without 
the  spurring  they  received  from  the  distraught  Leandre. 

Hitherto  the  attitude  of  each  of  these  men  towards  the 
other  had  been  one  of  mutual  contempt.  The  phenomenon 
has  frequently  been  observed  in  like  cases.  Now,  what  ap- 
peared to  be  a  common  misfortune  brought  them  into  a 
sort  of  alliance.  So,  at  least,  it  seemed  to  Leandre  when  he 


The  Fracas  at  the  Theatre  Feydau          205 

went  in  quest  of  Andr6-Louis,  who  with  apparent  uncon- 
cern was  smoking  a  pipe  upon  the  quay  immediately  facing 
the  inn. 

"Name  of  a  pig!"  said  Leandre.  "How  can  you  take 
your  ease  and  smoke  at  such  a  time?" 

Scaramouche  surveyed  the  sky.  "I  do  not  find  it  too 
cold,"  said  he.  "The  sun  is  shining.  I  am  very  well  here." 

"Do  I  talk  of  the  weather?"  Leandre  was  very  excited. 

"Of  what,  then?" 

"Of  Climene,  of  course." 

"Oh!  The  lady  has  ceased  to  interest  me,"  he  lied. 

Leandre  stood  squarely  in  front  of  him,  a  handsome 
figure  handsomely  dressed  in  these  days,  his  hair  well 
powdered,  his  stockings  of  silk.  His  face  was  pale,  his  large 
eyes  looked  larger  than  usual. 

"Ceased  to  interest  you?  Are  you  not  to  marry  her?" 

Andre-Louis  expelled  a  cloud  of  smoke.  "You  cannot 
wish  to  be  offensive.  Yet  you  almost  suggest  that  I  live  on 
other  men's  leavings." 

"My  God!"  said  L6andre,  overcome,  and  he  stared 
awhile.  Then  he  burst  out  afresh.  "Are  you  quite  heartless? 
Are  you  always  Scaramouche?" 

"What  do  you  expect  me  to  do?"  asked  Andr6-Louis, 
evincing  surprise  in  his  own  turn,  but  faintly. 

"I  do  not  expect  you  to  let  her  go  without  a  struggle." 

"But  she  has  gone  already."  Andre-Louis  pulled  at  his 
pipe  a  moment,  what  time  Leandre  clenched  and  unclenched 
his  hands  in  impotent  rage.  "And  to  what  purpose  struggle 
against  the  inevitable?  Did  you  struggle  when  I  took  her 
from  you?" 

"She  was  not  mine  to  be  taken  from  me.  I  but  aspired, 
and  you  won  the  race.  But  even  had  it  been  otherwise 
where  is  the  comparison?  That  was  a  thing  in  honour;  this 
—  this  is  hell." 

His  emotion  moved  Andr£-Louis.  He  took  L£andre's  arm. 

"You're  a  good  fellow,  Leandre.  I  am  glad  I  intervened 
to  save  you  from  your  fate." 


206  The  Buskin 


"Oh,  you  don't  love  her!"  cried  the  other,  passionately. 
"You  never  did.  You  don't  know  what  it  means  to  love, 
or  you'd  not  talk  like  this.  My  God!  if  she  had  been  my 
affianced  wife  and  this  had  happened,  I  should  have  killed 
the  man  —  killed  him!  Do  you  hear  me?  But  you  .  .  .  Oh, 
you,  you  come  out  here  and  smoke,  and  take  the  air,  and 
talk  of  her  as  another  man's  leavings.  I  wonder  I  did  n't 
strike  you  for  the  word." 

He  tore  his  arm  from  the  other's  grip,  and  looked  almost 
as  if  he  would  strike  him  now. 

"You  should  have  done  it,"  said  Andre-Louis.  "It's  in 
your  part." 

With  an  imprecation  L6andre  turned  on  his  heel  to  go. 
Andr£-Louis  arrested  his  departure. 

"A  moment,  my  friend.  Test  me  by  yourself.  Would  you 
marry  her  now?" 

"Would  I?"  The  young  man's  eyes  blazed  with  passion. 
"Would  I?  Let  her  say  that  she  will  marry  me,  and  I  am 
her  slave." 

"Slave  is  the  right  word  —  a  slave  in  hell." 

"It  would  never  be  hell  to  me  where  she  was,  whatever 
she  had  done.  I  love  her,  man,  I  am  not  like  you.  I  love 
her,  do  you  hear  me?" 

"I  have  known  it  for  some  time,"  said  Andr£-Louis. 
"Though  I  did  n't  suspect  your  attack  of  the  disease  to  be 
quite  so  violent.  Well,  God  knows  I  loved  her,  too,  quite 
enough  to  share  your  thirst  for  killing.  For  myself,  the 
blue  blood  of  La  Tour  d'Azyr  would  hardly  quench  this 
thirst.  I  should  like  to  add  to  it  the  dirty  fluid  that  flows  in 
the  veins  of  the  unspeakable  Binet." 

For  a  second  his  emotion  had  been  out  of  hand,  and  he 
revealed  to  L6andre  in  the  mordant  tone  of  those  last  words 
something  of  the  fires  that  burned  under  his  icy  exterior. 
The  young  man  caught  him  by  the  hand. 

"I  knew  you  were  acting,"  said  he.  "You  feel  —  you 
feel  as  I  do." 

"Behold  us,  fellows  in  viciousness.   I  have  betrayed  my- 


The  Fracas  at  the  Theatre  Feydau          207 

self,  it  seems.  Well,  and  what  now?  Do  you  want  to  see 
this  pretty  Marquis  torn  limb  from  limb?  I  might  afford 
you  the  spectacle." 

"What?"  L£andre  stared,  wondering  was  this  another 
of  Scaramouche's  cynicisms. 

"It  isn't  really  difficult  provided  I  have  aid.  I  require 
only  a  little.  Will  you  lend  it  me?" 

"Anything  you  ask,"  L6andre  exploded.  "My  life  if  you 
require  it." 

Andr6-Louis  took  his  arm  again.  "Let  us  walk,"  he  said. 
"I  will  instruct  you." 

When  they  came  back  the  company  was  already  at  din- 
ner. Mademoiselle  had  not  yet  returned.  Sullenness  pre- 
sided at  the  table.  Columbine  and  Madame  wore  anxious 
expressions.  The  fact  was  that  relations  between  Binet  and 
his  troupe  were  daily  growing  more  strained. 

Andre-Louis  and  L6andre  went  each  to  his  accustomed 
place.  Binet's  little  eyes  followed  them  with  a  malicious 
gleam,  his  thick  lips  pouted  into  a  crooked  smile. 

"You  two  are  grown  very  friendly  of  a  sudden,"  he 
mocked. 

"You  are  a  man  of  discernment,  Binet,"  said  Scara- 
mouche,  the  cold  loathing  of  his  voice  itself  an  insult. 
"Perhaps  you  discern  the  reason?" 

"It  is  readily  discerned." 

"Regale  the  company  with  it!"  he  begged;  and  waited. 
"What?  You  hesitate?  Is  it  possible  that  there  are  limits 
to  your  shamelessness?" 

Binet  reared  his  great  head.  "Do  you  want  to  quarrel  with 
me,  Scaramouche?  "  Thunder  was  rumbling  in  his  deepvoice. 

"Quarrel?  You  want  to  laugh.  A  man  does  n't  quarrel 
with  creatures  like  you.  We  all  know  the  place  held  in  the 
public  esteem  by  complacent  husbands.  But,  in  God's 
name,  what  place  is  there  at  all  for  complacent  fathers?" 

Binet  heaved  himself  up,  a  great  towering  mass  of  man- 
hood. Violently  he  shook  off  the  restraining  hand  of  Pierrot 
who  sat  on  his  left. 


2o8  The  Buskin 


"A  thousand  devils!"  he  roared;  "if  you  take  that  tone 
with  me,  I'll  break  every  bone  in  your  filthy  body." 

"If  you  were  to  lay  a  finger  on  me,  Binet,  you  would 
give  me  the  only  provocation  I  still  need  to  kill  you." 
Andr6-Louis  was  as  calm  as  ever,  and  therefore  the  more 
menacing.  Alarm  stirred  the  company.  He  protruded  from 
his  pocket  the  butt  of  a  pistol  —  newly  purchased.  "I  go 
armed,  Binet.  It  is  only  fair  to  give  you  warning.  Provoke 
me  as  you  have  suggested,  and  I'll  kill  you  with  no  more 
compunction  than  I  should  kill  a  slug,  which  after  all  is  the 
thing  you  most  resemble  —  a  slug,  Binet;  a  fat,  slimy  body; 
foulness  without  soul  and  without  intelligence.  When  I 
come  to  think  of  it  I  can't  suffer  to  sit  at  table  with  you.  It 
turns  my  stomach." 

He  pushed  away  his  platter  and  got  up.  "I'll  go  and  eat 
at  the  ordinary  below  stairs." 

Thereupon  up  jumped  Columbine. 

"And  I'll  come  with  you,  Scaramouche ! "  cried  she. 

It  acted  like  a  signal.  Had  the  thing  been  concerted  it 
could  n't  have  fallen  out  more  uniformly.  Binet,  in  fact, 
was  persuaded  of  a  conspiracy.  For  in  the  wake  of  Colum- 
bine went  Leandre,  in  the  wake  of  L6andre,  Polichinelle ; 
and  then  all  the  rest  together,  until  Binet  found  himself 
sitting  alone  at  the  head  of  an  empty  table  in  an  empty 
room — a  badly  shaken  man  whose  rage  could  afford  him  no 
support  against  the  dread  by  which  he  was  suddenly  invaded. 

He  sat  down  to  think  things  out,  and  he  was  still  at  that 
melancholy  occupation  when  perhaps  a  half-hour  later  his 
daughter  entered  the  room,  returned  at  last  from  her  ex- 
cursion. 

She  looked  pale,  even  a  little  scared  —  in  reality  exces- 
sively self-conscious  now  that  the  ordeal  of  facing  all  the 
company  awaited  her. 

Seeing  no  one  but  her  father  in  the  room,  she  checked  on 
the  threshold. 

"Where  is  everybody?"  she  asked,  in  a  voice  rendered 
natural  by  effort. 


The  Fracas  at  the  Theatre  Feydau          209 

M.  Binet  reared  his  great  head  and  turned  upon  her  eyes 
that  were  blood-injected.  He  scowled,  blew  out  his  thick 
lips  and  made  harsh  noises  in  his  throat.  Yet  he  took  stock 
of  her,  so  graceful  and  comely  and  looking  so  completely 
the  lady  of  fashion  in  her  long  fur-trimmed  travelling  coat 
of  bottle  green,  her  muff  and  her  broad  hat  adorned  by  a 
sparkling  Rhinestone  buckle  above  her  adorably  coiffed 
brown  hair.  No  need  to  fear  the  future  whilst  he  owned 
such  a  daughter,  let  Scaramouche  play  what  tricks  he 
would. 

He  expressed,  however,  none  of  these  comforting  re- 
flections. 

"So  you're  back  at  last,  little  fool,"  he  growled  in  greet- 
ing. "I  was  beginning  to  ask  myself  if  we  should  perform 
this  evening.  It  would  n't  greatly  have  surprised  me  if  you 
had  not  returned  in  time.  Indeed,  since  you  have  chosen 
to  play  the  fine  hand  you  held  in  your  own  way  and  scorning 
my  advice,  nothing  can  surprise  me." 

She  crossed  the  room  to  the  table,  and  leaning  against  it, 
looked  down  upon  him  almost  disdainfully. 

"I  have  nothing  to  regret,"  she  said. 

"So  every  fool  says  at  first.  Nor  would  you  admit  it  if 
you  had.  You  are  like  that.  You  go  your  own  way  in  spite 
of  advice  from  older  heads.  Death  of  my  life,  girl,  what  do 
you  know  of  men?" 

"I  am  not  complaining,"  she  reminded  him. 

"No,  but  you  may  be  presently,  when  you  discover 
that  you  would  have  done  better  to  have  been  guided  by 
your  old  father.  So  long  as  your  Marquis  languished  for 
you,  there  was  nothing  you  could  not  have  done  with  the 
fool.  So  long  as  you  let  him  have  no  more  than  your  finger- 
tips to  kiss  ...  ah,  name  of  a  name!  that  was  the  time  to 
build  your  future.  If  you  live  to  be  a  thousand  you  '11  never 
have  such  a  chance  again,  and  you've  squandered  it,  for 
what?" 

Mademoiselle  sat  down.  "You're  sordid,"  she  said, 
with  disgust. 


2io  The  Buskin 


"Sordid,  am  I?"  His  thick  lips  curled  again.  "I  have 
had  enough  of  the  dregs  of  life,  and  so  I  should  have  thought 
have  you.  You  held  a  hand  on  which  to  have  won  a  fortune 
if  you  had  played  it  as  I  bade  you.  Well,  you've  played  it, 
and  where 's  the  fortune?  We  can  whistle  for  that  as  a  sailor 
whistles  for  wind.  And,  by  Heaven,  we'll  need  to  whistle 
presently  if  the  weather  in  the  troupe  continues  as  it's  set 
in.  That  scoundrel  Scaramouche  has  been  at  his  ape's  tricks 
with  them.  They've  suddenly  turned  moral.  They  won't 
sit  at  table  with  me  any  more."  He  was  spluttering  between 
anger  and  sardonic  mirth.  "It  was  your  friend  Scaramouche 
set  them  the  example  of  that.  He  threatened  my  life 
actually.  Threatened  my  life!  Called  me  .  .  .  Oh,  but  what 
does  that  matter?  What  matters  is  that  the  next  thing  to 
happen  to  us  will  be  that  the  Binet  Troupe  will  discover  it 
can  manage  without  M.  Binet  and  his  daughter.  This 
scoundrelly  bastard  I've  befriended  has  little  by  little 
robbed  me  of  everything.  It's  in  his  power  to-day  to  rob 
me  of  my  troupe,  and  the  knave's  ungrateful  enough  and 
vile  enough  to  make  use  of  his  power." 

"Let  him,"  said  mademoiselle  contemptuously. 

"Let  him?"  He  was  aghast.  "And  what's  to  become  of 
us?" 

"In  no  case  will  the  Binet  Troupe  interest  me  much 
longer,"  said  she.  "I  shall  be  going  to  Paris  soon.  There 
are  better  theatres  there  than  the  Feydau.  There's  Mile. 
Montansier's  theatre  in  the  Palais  Royal;  there's  the 
Ambigu  Comique;  there's  the  Comedie  Frangaise;  there's 
even  a  possibility  I  may  have  a  theatre  of  my  own." 

His  eyes  grew  big  for  once.  He  stretched  out  a  fat 
hand,  and  placed  it  on  one  of  hers.  She  noticed  that  it 
trembled. 

"Has  he  promised  that?  Has  he  promised?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  her  head  on  one  side,  eyes  sly  and 
a  queer  little  smile  on  her  perfect  lips. 

"He  did  not  refuse  me  when  I  asked  it,"  she  answered, 
with  conviction  that  all  was  as  she  desired  it. 


The  Fracas  at  the  Theatre  Feydau          211 

"Bah!"  He  withdrew  his  hand,  and  heaved  himself  up. 
There  was  disgust  on  his  face.  "He  did  not  refuse!"  he 
mocked  her;  and  then  with  passion:  "Had  you  acted  as  I 
advised  you,  he  would  have  consented  to  anything  that  you 
asked,  and  what  is  more  he  would  have  provided  anything 
that  you  asked  —  anything  that  lay  within  his  means,  and 
they  are  inexhaustible.  You  have  changed  a  certainty  into 
a  possibility,  and  I  hate  possibilities  —  God  of  God!  I 
have  lived  on  possibilities,  and  infernally  near  starved 
on  them." 

Had  she  known  of  the  interview  taking  place  at  that 
moment  at  the  Chateau  de  Sautron  she  would  have  laughed 
less  confidently  at  her  father's  gloomy  forebodings.  But 
she  was  destined  never  to  know,  which  indeed  was  the  cruel- 
lest punishment  of  all.  She  was  to  attribute  all  the  evil 
that  of  a  sudden  overwhelmed  her,  the  shattering  of  all  the 
future  hopes  she  had  founded  upon  the  Marquis  and  the 
sudden  disintegration  of  the  Binet  Troupe,  to  the  wicked 
interference  of  that  villain  Scaramouche. 

She  had  this  much  justification  that  possibly,  without 
the  warning  from  M.  de  Sautron,  the  Marquis  would  have 
found  in  the  events  of  that  evening  at  the  Theatre  Feydau 
a  sufficient  reason  for  ending  an  entanglement  that  was 
fraught  with  too  much  unpleasant  excitement,  whilst  the 
breaking-up  of  the  Binet  Troupe  was  most  certainly  the 
result  of  Andr6-Louis'  work.  But  it  was  not  a  result  that 
he  intended  or  even  foresaw. 

So  much  was  this  the  case  that  in  the  interval  after  the 
second  act,  he  sought  the  dressing-room  shared  by  Poli- 
chinelle  and  Rhodomont.  Polichinelle  was  in  the  act  of 
changing. 

"I  shouldn't  trouble  to  change,"  he  said.  "The  piece 
is  n't  likely  to  go  beyond  my  opening  scene  of  the  next  act 
with  L6andre." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"You'll  see."  He  put  a  paper  on  Polichinelle's  table 
amid  the  grease-paints.  "Cast  your  eye  over  that.  It's  a 


212  The  Buskin 


sort  of  last  will  and  testament  in  favour  of  the  troupe.  I 
was  a  lawyer  once;  the  document  is  in  order.  I  relinquish 
to  all  of  you  the  share  produced  by  my  partnership  in  the 
company." 

"But  you  don't  mean  that  you  are  leaving  us?"  cried 
Polichinelle  in  alarm,  whilst  Rhodomont's  sudden  stare 
asked  the  same  question. 

Scaramouche's  shrug  was  eloquent.  Polichinelle  ran  on 
gloomily:  "Of  course  it  was  to  have  been  foreseen.  But 
why  should  you  be  the  one  to  go?  It  is  you  who  have  made 
us;  and  it  is  you  who  are  the  real  head  and  brains  of  the 
troupe;  it  is  you  who  have  raised  it  into  a  real  theatrical 
company.  If  any  one  must  go,  let  it  be  Binet  —  Binet  and 
his  infernal  daughter.  Or  if  you  go,  name  of  a  name!  we 
all  go  with  you!" 

"Aye,"  added  Rhodomont,  "we've  had  enough  of  that 
fat  scoundrel." 

"I  had  thought  of  it,  of  course,"  said  Andr6-Louis.  "It 
was  not  vanity,  for  once;  it  was  trust  in  your  friendship. 
After  to-night  we  may  consider  it  again,  if  I  survive." 

"If  you  survive?"  both  cried. 

Polichinelle  got  up.  "Now,  what  madness  have  you  in 
mind?"  he  asked. 

"For  one  thing  I  think  I  am  indulging  L6andre;  for  an- 
other I  am  pursuing  an  old  quarrel." 

The  three  knocks  sounded  as  he  spoke. 

"There,  I  must  go.  Keep  that  paper,  Polichinelle.  After 
all,  it  may  not  be  necessary." 

He  was  gone.  Rhodomont  stared  at  Polichinelle.  Poli- 
chinelle stared  at  Rhodomont. 

"What  the  devil  is  he  thinking  of?"  quoth  the  latter. 

"That  is  most  readily  ascertained  by  going  to  see,"  re- 
plied Polichinelle.  He  completed  changing  in  haste,  and 
despite  what  Scaramouche  had  said ;  and  then  followed  with 
Rhodomont. 

As  they  approached  the  wings  a  roar  of  applause  met 
them  coming  from  the  audience.  It  was  applause  and 


The  Fracas  at  the  Theatre  Feydau          213 

something  else;  applause  on  an  unusual  note.  As  it  faded 
away  they  heard  the  voice  of  Scaramouche  ringing  clear  as 
a  bell: 

"And  so  you  see,  my  dear  M.  L6andre,  that  when  you 
speak  of  the  Third  Estate,  it  is  necessary  to  be  more  ex- 
plicit. What  precisely  is  the  Third  Estate?" 

"Nothing,"  said  Leandre. 

There  was  a  gasp  from  the  audience,  audible  in  the  wings, 
and  then  swiftly  followed  Scaramouche's  next  question : 

"True.  Alas!  But  what  should  it  be?" 

"Everything,"  said  Leandre. 

The  audience  roared  its  acclamations,  the  more  violent 
because  of  the  unexpectedness  of  that  reply. 

"True  again,"  said  Scaramouche.  "And  what  is  more, 
that  is  what  it  will  be;  that  is  what  it  already  is.  Do  you 
doubt  it?" 

"I  hope  it,"  said  the  schooled  Leandre. 

"You  may  believe  it,"  said  Scaramouche,  and  again  the 
acclamations  rolled  into  thunder. 

Polichinelle  and  Rhodomont  exchanged  glances:  indeed, 
the  former  winked,  not  without  mirth. 

"Sacred  name!"  growled  a  voice  behind  them.  "Is  the 
scoundrel  at  his  political  tricks  again?" 

They  turned  to  confront  M.  Binet.  Moving  with  that 
noiseless  tread  of  his,  he  had  come  up  unheard  behind  them, 
and  there  he  stood  now  in  his  scarlet  suit  of  Pantaloon 
under  a  trailing  bedgown,  his  little  eyes  glaring  from  either 
side  of  his  false  nose.  But  their  attention  was  held  by  the 
voice  of  Scaramouche.  He  had  stepped  to  the  front  of  the 
stage. 

"He  doubts  it,"  he  was  telling  the  audience.  "But  then 
this  M.  Leandre  is  himself  akin  to  those  who  worship  the 
worm-eaten  idol  of  Privilege,  and  so  he  is  a  little  afraid  to 
believe  a  truth  that  is  becoming  apparent  to  all  the  world. 
Shall  I  convince  him?  Shall  I  tell  him  how  a  company  of 
noblemen  backed  by  their  servants  under  arms  —  six  hun- 
dred men  in  all  —  sought  to  dictate  to  the  Third  Estate  of 


214  The  Buskin 


Rennes  a  few  short  weeks  ago?  Must  I  remind  him  of  the 
martial  front  shown  on  that  occasion  by  the  Third  Estate, 
and  how  they  swept  the  streets  clean  of  that  rabble  of 
nobles  —  cette  canaille  noble  ..." 

Applause  interrupted  him.  The  phrase  had  struck  home 
and  caught.  Those  who  had  writhed  under  that  infamous 
designation  from  their  betters  leapt  at  this  turning  of  it 
against  the  nobles  themselves. 

"But  let  me  tell  you  of  their  leader  —  le  plus  noble  de 
cette  canaille,  ou  bien  le  plus  canaille  de  ces  nobles!  You  know 
him  —  that  one.  He  fears  many  things,  but  the  voice  of 
truth  he  fears  most.  With  such  as  him  the  eloquent  truth 
eloquently  spoken  is  a  thing  instantly  to  be  silenced.  So  he 
marshalled  his  peers  and  their  valetailles,  and  led  them  out 
to  slaughter  these  miserable  bourgeois  who  dared  to  raise 
a  voice.  But  these  same  miserable  bourgeois  did  not  choose 
to  be  slaughtered  in  the  streets  of  Rennes.  It  occurred  to 
them  that  since  the  nobles  decreed  that  blood  should  flow, 
it  might  as  well  be  the  blood  of  the  nobles.  They  marshalled 
themselves  too  —  this  noble  rabble  against  the  rabble  of 
nobles  —  and  they  marshalled  themselves  so  well  that  they 
drove  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyrand  his  warlike  following  from 
the  field  with  broken  heads  and  shattered  delusions.  They 
sought  shelter  at  the  hands  of  the  Cordeliers;  and  the 
shavelings  gave  them  sanctuary  in  their  convent  —  those 
who  survived,  among  whom  was  their  proud  leader,  M.  de 
La  Tour  d'Azyr.  You  have  heard  of  this  valiant  Marquis, 
this  great  lord  of  life  and  death?  " 

The  pit  was  in  an  uproar  a  moment.  It  quieted  again  as 
Scaramouche  continued : 

"Oh,  it  was  a  fine  spectacle  to  see  this  mighty  hunter 
scuttling  to  cover  like  a  hare,  going  to  earth  in  the  Cordelier 
Convent.  Rennes  has  not  seen  him  since.  Rennes  would 
like  to  see  him  again.  But  if  he  is  valorous,  he  is  also  dis- 
creet. And  where  do  you  think  he  has  taken  refuge,  this 
great  nobleman  who  wanted  to  see  the  streets  of  Rennes 
washed  in  the  blood  of  its  citizens,  this  man  who  would  have 


The  Fracas  at  the  Theatre  Feydau          215 

butchered  old  and  young  of  the  contemptible  canaille  to 
silence  the  voice  of  reason  and  of  liberty  that  presumes  to 
ring  through  France  to-day?  Where  do  you  think  he  hides 
himself?  Why,  here  in  Nantes." 

Again  there  was  uproar. 

"What  do  you  say?  Impossible?  Why,  my  friends,  at  this 
moment  he  is  here  in  this  theatre  —  skulking  up  there  in  that 
box.  He  is  too  shy  to  show  himself  —  oh,  a  very  modest 
gentleman.  But  there  he  is  behind  the  curtains.  Will  you 
not  show  yourself  to  your  friends,  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr, 
Monsieur  le  Marquis  who  considers  eloquence  so  very  dan- 
gerous a  gift?  See,  they  would  like  a  word  with  you;  they  do 
not  believe  me  when  I  tell  them  that  you  are  here." 

Now,  whatever  he  may  have  been,  and  whatever  the 
views  held  on  the  subject  by  Andre-Louis,  M.  de  La  Tour 
d'Azyr  was  certainly  not  a  coward.  To  say  that  he  was 
hiding  in  Nantes  was  not  true.  He  came  and  went  there 
openly  and  unabashed.  It  happened,  however,  that  the 
Nantais  were  ignorant  until  this  moment  of  his  presence 
among  them.  But  then  he  would  have  disdained  to  have  in- 
formed them  of  it  just  as  he  would  have  disdained  to  have 
concealed  it  from  them. 

Challenged  thus,  however,  and  despite  the  ominous  man- 
ner in  which  the  bourgeois  element  in  the  audience  had  re- 
sponded to  Scaramouche's  appeal  to  its  passions,  despite  the 
attempts  made  by  Chabrillane  to  restrain  him,  the  Marquis 
swept  aside  the  curtain  at  the  side  of  the  box,  and  suddenly 
showed  himself,  pale  but  self-contained  and  scornful  as  he 
surveyed  first  the  daring  Scaramouche  and  then  those  others 
who  at  sight  of  him  had  given  tongue  to  their  hostility. 

Hoots  and  yells  assailed  him,  fists  were  shaken  at  him, 
canes  were  brandished  menacingly. 

"Assassin!  Scoundrel!  Coward!  Traitor!" 

But  he  braved  the  storm,  smiling  upon  them  his  ineffable 
contempt.  He  was  waiting  for  the  noise  to  cease ;  waiting  to 
address  them  in  his  turn.  But  he  waited  in  vain,  as  he  very 
soon  perceived. 


2i6  The  Buskin 


The  contempt  he  did  not  trouble  to  dissemble  served  but 
to  goad  them  on. 

In  the  pit  pandemonium  was  already  raging.  Blows  were 
being  freely  exchanged;  there  were  scuffling  groups,  and 
here  and  there  swords  were  being  drawn,  but  fortunately  the 
press  was  too  dense  to  permit  of  their  being  used  effectively. 
Those  who  had  women  with  them  and  the  timid  by  nature 
were  making  haste  to  leave  a  house  that  looked  like  be- 
coming a  cockpit,  where  chairs  were  being  smashed  to 
provide  weapons,  and  parts  of  chandeliers  were  already 
being  used  as  missiles. 

One  of  these  hurled  by  the  hand  of  a  gentleman  in  one 
of  the  boxes  narrowly  missed  Scaramouche  where  he  stood, 
looking  down  in  a  sort  of  grim  triumph  upon  the  havoc 
which  his  words  had  wrought.  Knowing  of  what  inflam- 
mable material  the  audience  was  composed,  he  had  de- 
liberately flung  down  amongst  them  the  lighted  torch  of 
discord,  to  produce  this  conflagration. 

He  saw  men  falling  quickly  into  groups  representative  of 
one  side  or  the  other  of  this  great  quarrel  that  already  was 
beginning  to  agitate  the  whole  of  France.  Their  rallying 
cries  were  ringing  through  the  theatre. 

"Down  with  the  canaille!"  from  some. 

"Down  with  the  privileged!"  from  others. 

And  then  above  the  general  din  one  cry  rang  out  sharply 
and  insistently: 

"To  the  box!  Death  to  the  butcher  of  Rennes!  Death 
to  La  Tour  d'Azyr  who  makes  war  upon  the  people!" 

There  was  a  rush  for  one  of  the  doors  of  the  pit  that 
opened  upon  the  staircase  leading  to  the  boxes. 

And  now,  whilst  battle  and  confusion  spread  with  the 
speed  of  fire,  overflowing  from  the  theatre  into  the  street 
itself,  La  Tour  d'Azyr's  box,  which  had  become  the  main 
object  of  the  attack  of  the  bourgeoisie,  had  also  become 
the  rallying  ground  for  such  gentlemen  as  were  present  in  the 
theatre  and  for  those  who,  without  being  men  of  birth  them- 
selves, were  nevertheless  attached  to  the  party  of  the  nobles. 


The  Fracas  at  the  Theatre  Feydau          217 

La  Tour  d'Azyr  had  quitted  the  front  of  the  box  to  meet 
those  who  came  to  join  him.  And  now  in  the  pit  one  group 
of  infuriated  gentlemen,  in  attempting  to  reach  the  stage 
across  the  empty  orchestra,  so  that  they  might  deal  with 
the  audacious  comedian  who  was  responsible  for  this  ex- 
plosion, found  themselves  opposed  and  held  back  by  an- 
other group  composed  of  men  to  whose  feelings  Andre- 
Louis  had  given  expression. 

Perceiving  this,  and  remembering  the  chandelier,  he 
turned  to  Leandre,  who  had  remained  beside  him. 

"I  think  it  is  time  to  be  going,"  said  he. 

Leandre,  looking  ghastly  under  his  paint,  appalled  by 
the  storm  which  exceeded  by  far  anything  that  his  un- 
imaginative brain  could  have  conjectured,  gurgled  an  in- 
articulate agreement.  But  it  looked  as  if  already  they  were 
too  late,  for  in  that  moment  they  were  assailed  from  behind. 

M.  Binet  had  succeeded  at  last  in  breaking  past  Poli- 
chinelle  and  Rhodomont,  who  in  view  of  his  murderous 
rage  had  been  endeavouring  to  restrain  him.  Half  a  dozen 
gentlemen,  habitues  of  the  green-room,  had  come  round  to 
the  stage  to  disembowel  the  knave  who  had  created  this 
riot,  and  it  was  they  who  had  flung  aside  those  two  come- 
dians who  hung  upon  Binet.  After  him  they  came  now, 
their  swords  out;  but  after  them  again  came  Polichinelle, 
Rhodomont,  Harlequin,  Pierrot,  Pasquariel,  and  Basque 
the  artist,  armed  with  such  implements  as  they  could  hastily 
snatch  up,  and  intent  upon  saving  the  man  with  whom 
they  sympathized  in  spite  of  all,  and  in  whom  now  all  their 
hopes  were  centred. 

Well  ahead  rolled  Binet,  moving  faster  than  any  had 
ever  seen  him  move,  and  swinging  the  long  cane  from  which 
Pantaloon  is  inseparable. 

"Infamous  scoundrel!"  he  roared.  "You  have  ruined 
me!  But,  name  of  a  name,  you  shall  pay!" 

Andre-Louis  turned  to  face  him.  "You  confuse  cause 
with  effect,"  said  he.  But  he  got  no  farther.  Binet's  cane, 
viciously  driven,  descended  and  broke  upon  his  shoulder. 


218  The  Buskin 


Had  he  not  moved  swiftly  aside  as  the  blow  fell  it  must 
have  taken  him  across  the  head,  and  possibly  stunned  him. 
As  he  moved,  he  dropped  his  hand  to  his  pocket,  and  swift 
upon  the  cracking  of  Binet's  breaking  cane  came  the  crack 
of  the  pistol  with  which  Andre-Louis  replied. 

"You  had  your  warning,  you  filthy  pander!"  he  cried. 
And  on  the  word  he  shot  him  through  the  body. 

Binet  went  down  screaming,  whilst  the  fierce  Polichineile, 
fiercer  than  ever  in  that  moment  of  fierce  reality,  spoke 
quickly  into  Andre-Louis'  ear: 

"Fool!  So  much  was  not  necessary!  Away  with  you 
now,  or  you'll  leave  your  skin  here!  Away  with  you!" 

Andre-Louis  thought  it  good  advice,  and  took  it.  The 
gentlemen  who  had  followed  Binet  in  that  punitive  rush 
upon  the  stage,  partly  held  in  check  by  the  improvised 
weapons  of  the  players,  partly  intimidated  by  the  second 
pistol  that  Scaramouche  presented,  let  him  go.  He  gained 
the  wings,  and  here  found  himself  faced  by  a  couple  of 
sergeants  of  the  watch,  part  of  the  police  that  was  already 
invading  the  theatre  with  a  view  to  restoring  order.  The 
sight  of  them  reminded  him  unpleasantly  of  how  he  must 
stand  towards  the  law  for  this  night's  work,  and  more  par- 
ticularly for  that  bullet  lodged  somewhere  in  Binet's  obese 
body.  He  flourished  his  pistol. 

"Make  way,  or  I'll  burn  your  brains!"  he  threatened 
them,  and  intimidated,  themselves  without  firearms,  they 
fell  back  and  let  him  pass.  He  slipped  by  the  door  of  the 
green-room,  where  the  ladies  of  the  company  had  shut 
themselves  in  until  the  storm  should  be  over,  and  so  gained 
the  street  behind  the  theatre.  It  was  deserted.  Down  this 
he  went  at  a  run,  intent  on  reaching  the  inn  for  clothes 
and  money,  since  it  was  impossible  that  he  should  take  the 
road  in  the  garb  of  Scaramouche. 


BOOK  III:  THE  SWORD 

•    • 

CHAPTER  I 
TRANSITION 

"You  may  agree,"  wrote  Andr6-Louis  from  Paris  to  Le 
Chapelier,  in  a  letter  which  survives,  "that  it  is  to  be  re- 
gretted I  should  definitely  have  discarded  the  livery  of 
Scaramouche,  since  clearly  there  could  be  no  livery  fitter 
for  my  wear.  It  seems  to  be  my  part  always  to  stir  up 
strife  and  then  to  slip  away  before  I  am  caught  in  the 
crash  of  the  warring  elements  I  have  aroused.  It  is  a  hu- 
miliating reflection.  I  seek  consolation  in  the  reminder  of 
Epictetus  (do  you  ever  read  Epictetus?)  that  we  are  but 
actors  in  a  play  of  such  a  part  as  it  may  please  the  Director 
to  assign  us.  It  does  not,  however,  console  me  to  have  been 
cast  for  a  part  so  contemptible,  to  find  myself  excelling  ever 
in  the  art  of  running  away.  But  if  I  am  not  brave,  at  least 
I  am  prudent;  so  that  where  I  lack  one  virtue  I  may  lay 
claim  to  possessing  another  almost  to  excess.  On  a  previous 
occasion  they  wanted  to  hang  me  for  sedition.  Should  I 
have  stayed  to  be  hanged?  This  time  they  may  want  to 
hang  me  for  several  things,  including  murder;  for  I  do  not 
know  whether  that  scoundrel  Binet  be  alive  or  dead  from 
the  dose  of  lead  I  pumped  into  his  fat  paunch.  Nor  can  I 
say  that  I  very  greatly  care.  If  I  have  a  hope  at  all  in  the 
matter  it  is  that  he  is  dead  —  and  damned.  But  I  am  really 
indifferent.  My  own  concerns  are  troubling  me  enough.  I 
have  all  but  spent  the  little  money  that  I  contrived  to 
conceal  about  me  before  I  fled  from  Nantes  on  that  dread- 
ful night;  and  both  of  the  only  two  professions  of  which  I 
can  claim  to  know  anything  —  the  law  and  the  stage  —  are 


22O  The  Sword 


closed  to  me,  since  I  cannot  find  employment  in  either 
without  revealing  myself  as  a  fellow  who  is  urgently  wanted 
by  the  hangman.  As  things  are  it  is  very  possible  that  I 
may  die  of  hunger,  especially  considering  the  present  price 
of  victuals  in  this  ravenous  city.  Again  I  have  recourse  to 
Epictetus  for  comfort.  'It  is  better,'  he  says,  'to  die  of 
hunger  having  lived  without  grief  and  fear,  than  to  live 
with  a  troubled  spirit  amid  abundance.'  I  seem  likely  to 
perish  in  the  estate  that  he  accounts  so  enviable.  That  it 
does  not  seem  exactly  enviable  to  me  merely  proves  that  as 
a  Stoic  I  am  not  a  success." 

There  is  also  another  letter  of  his  written  at  about  the 
same  time  to  the  Marquis  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr  —  a  letter 
since  published  by  M.  Emile  Quersac  in  his  "Undercur- 
rents of  the  Revolution  in  Brittany,"  unearthed  by  him 
from  the  archives  of  Rennes,  to  which  it  had  been  consigned 
by  M.  de  Lesdiguieres,  who  had  received  it  for  justiciary 
purposes  from  the  Marquis. 

"The  Paris  newspapers,"  he  writes  in  this,  "which  have 
reported  in  considerable  detail  the  fracas  at  the  Theatre 
Feydau  and  disclosed  the  true  identity  of  the  Scaramouche 
who  provoked  it,  inform  me  also  that  you  have  escaped  the 
fate  I  had  intended  for  you  when  I  raised  that  storm  of 
public  opinion  and  public  indignation.  I  would  not  have 
you  take  satisfaction  in  the  thought  that  I  regret  your  es- 
cape. I  do  not.  I  rejoice  in  it.  To  deal  justice  by  death 
has  this  disadvantage  that  the  victim  has  no  knowledge 
that  justice  has  overtaken  him.  Had  you  died,  had  you  been 
torn  limb  from  limb  that  night,  I  should  now  repine  in  the 
thought  of  your  eternal  and  untroubled  slumber.  Not  in 
euthanasia,  but  in  torment  of  mind  should  the  guilty  atone. 
You  see,  I  am  not  sure  that  hell  hereafter  is  a  certainty, 
whilst  I  am  quite  sure  that  it  can  be  a  certainty  in  this  life; 
and  I  desire  you  to  continue  to  live  yet  awhile  that  you  may 
taste  something  of  its  bitterness. 

"You  murdered  Philippe  de  Vilmorin  because  you  feared 
what  you  described  as  his  very  dangerous  gift  of  eloquence, 


Transition  221 


I  took  an  oath  that  day  that  your  evil  deed  should  be  fruit- 
less ;  that  I  would  render  it  so ;  that  the  voice  you  had  done 
murder  to  stifle  should  in  spite  of  that  ring  like  a  trumpet 
through  the  land.  That  was  my  conception  of  revenge.  Do 
you  realize  how  I  have  been  fulfilling  it,  how  I  shall  continue 
to  fulfil  it  as  occasion  offers?  In  the  speech  with  which  I 
fired  the  people  of  Rennes  on  the  very  morrow  of  that  deed, 
did  you  not  hear  the  voice  of  Philippe  de  Vilmorin  uttering 
the  ideas  that  were  his  with  a  fire  and  a  passion  greater  than 
he  could  have  commanded  because  Nemesis  lent  me  her 
inflaming  aid  ?  In  the  voice  of  Omnes  Omnibus  at  Nantes  — 
my  voice  again  —  demanding  the  petition  that  sounded  the 
knell  of  your  hopes  of  coercing  the  Third  Estate,  did  you 
not  hear  again  the  voice  of  Philippe  de  Vilmorin?  Did  you 
not  reflect  that  it  was  the  mind  of  the  man  you  had  mur- 
dered, resurrected  in  me  his  surviving  friend,  which  made 
necessary  your  futile  attempt  under  arms  last  January, 
wherein  your  order,  finally  beaten,  was  driven  to  seek  sanc- 
tuary in  the  Cordelier  Convent?  And  that  night  when  from 
the  stage  of  the  Feydau  you  were  denounced  to  the  people, 
did  you  not  hear  yet  again,  in  the  voice  of  Scaramouche,  the 
voice  of  Philippe  de  Vilmorin,  using  that  dangerous  gift  of 
eloquence  which  you  so  foolishly  imagined  you  could  silence 
with  a  sword-thrust?  It  is  becoming  a  persecution  —  is  it 
not?  —  this  voice  from  the  grave  that  insists  upon  making 
itself  heard,  that  will  not  rest  until  you  have  been  cast  into 
the  pit.  You  will  be  regretting  by  now  that  you  did  not 
kill  me  too,  as  I  invited  you  on  that  occasion.  I  can  picture 
to  myself  the  bitterness  of  this  regret,  and  I  contemplate 
it  with  satisfaction.  Regret  of  neglected  opportunity  is 
the  worst  hell  that  a  living  soul  can  inhabit,  particularly 
such  a  soul  as  yours.  It  is  because  of  this  that  I  am  glad  to 
know  that  you  survived  the  riot  at  the  Feydau,  although 
at  the  time  it  was  no  part  of  my  intention  that  you  should. 
Because  of  this  I  am  content  that  you  should  live  to  enrage 
and  suffer  in  the  shadow  of  your  evil  deed,  knowing  at  last 
—  since  you  had  not  hitherto  the  wit  to  discern  it  for  your- 


222  The  Sword 


self  —  that  the  voice  of  Philippe  de  Vilmorin  will  follow 
you  to  denounce  you  ever  more  loudly,  ever  more  insistently, 
until  having  lived  in  dread  you  shall  go  down  in  blood  under 
the  just  rage  which  your  victim's  dangerous  gift  of  elo- 
quence is  kindling  against  you." 

I  find  it  odd  that  he  should  have  omitted  from  this  letter 
all  mention  of  Mile.  Binet,  and  I  am  disposed  to  account 
it  at  least  a  partial  insincerity  that  he  should  have  as- 
signed entirely  to  his  self-imposed  mission,  and  not  at  all  to 
his  lacerated  feelings  in  the  matter  of  Climene,  the  action 
which  he  had  taken  at  the  Feydau. 

Those  two  letters,  both  written  in  April  of  that  year 
1789,  had  for  only  immediate  effect  to  increase  the  activity 
with  which  Andr£-Louis  Moreau  was  being  sought. 

Le  Chapelier  would  have  found  him  so  as  to  lend  him  as- 
sistance, to  urge  upon  him  once  again  that  he  should  take 
up  a  political  career.  The  electors  of  Nantes  would  have 
found  him  —  at  least,  they  would  have  found  Omnes 
Omnibus,  of  whose  identity  with  himself  they  were  still 
in  ignorance  —  on  each  of  the  several  occasions  when  a  va- 
cancy occurred  in  their  body.  And  the  Marquis  de  La 
Tour  d'Azyr  and  M.  de  Lesdiguieres  would  have  found  him 
that  they  might  send  him  to  the  gallows. 

With  a  purpose  no  less  vindictive  was  he  being  sought  by 
M.  Binet,  now  unhappily  recovered  from  his  wound  to  face 
completest  ruin.  His  troupe  had  deserted  him  during  his 
illness,  and  reconstituted  under  the  direction  of  Polichi- 
nelle  it  was  now  striving  with  tolerable  success  to  continue 
upon  the  lines  which  Andr£-Louis  had  laid  down.  M.  le 
Marquis,  prevented  by  the  riot  from  expressing  in  person 
to  Mile.  Binet  his  purpose  of  making  an  end  of  their  rela- 
tions, had  been  constrained  to  write  to  her  to  that  effect 
from  Azyr  a  few  days  later.  He  tempered  the  blow  by  en- 
closing in  discharge  of  all  liabilities  a  bill  on  the  Caisse 
d'Escompte  for  a  hundred  louis.  Nevertheless  it  almost 
crushed  the  unfortunate  Climene,  and  it  enabled  her  father 
when  he  recovered  to  enrage  her  by  pointing  out  that  she 


Transition  223 


owed  this  turn  of  events  to  the  premature  surrender  she  had 
made  in  defiance  of  his  sound  worldly  advice.  Father  and 
daughter  alike  were  left  to  assign  the  Marquis'  desertion, 
naturally  enough,  to  the  riot  at  the  Feydau.  They  laid  that 
with  the  rest  to  the  account  of  Scaramouche,  and  were 
forced  in  bitterness  to  admit  that  the  scoundrel  had  taken 
a  superlative  revenge.  Climene  may  even  have  come  to  con- 
sider that  it  would  have  paid  her  better  to  have  run  a 
straight  course  with  Scaramouche  and  by  marrying  him  to 
have  trusted  to  his  undoubted  talents  to  place  her  on  the 
summit  to  which  her  ambition  urged  her,  and  to  which  it 
was  now  futile  for  her  to  aspire.  If  so,  that  reflection  must 
have  been  her  sufficient  punishment.  For,  as  Andr6-Louis 
so  truly  says,  there  is  no  worse  hell  than  that  provided  by  the 
regrets  for  wasted  opportunities. 

Meanwhile  the  fiercely  sought  Andr6-Louis  Moreau  had 
gone  to  earth  completely  for  the  present.  And  the  brisk 
police  of  Paris,  urged  on  by  the  King's  Lieutenant  from 
Rennes,  hunted  for  him  in  vain.  Yet  he  might  have  been 
found  in  a  house  in  the  Rue  du  Hasard  within  a  stone's 
throw  of  the  Palais  Royal,  whither  purest  chance  had  con- 
ducted him. 

That  which  in  his  letter  to  Le  Chapelier  he  represents  as 
a  contingency  of  the  near  future  was,  in  fact,  the  case  in 
which  already  he  found  himself.  He  was  destitute.  His 
money  was  exhausted,  including  that  procured  by  the  sale 
of  such  articles  of  adornment  as  were  not  of  absolute  neces- 
sity. 

So  desperate  was  his  case  that  strolling  one  gusty  April 
morning  down  the  Rue  du  Hasard  with  his  nose  in  the  wind 
looking  for  what  might  be  picked  up,  he  stopped  to  read 
a  notice  outside  the  door  of  a  house  on  the  left  side  of  the 
street  as  you  approach  the  Rue  de  Richelieu.  There  was 
no  reason  why  he  should  have  gone  down  the  Rue  du 
Hasard.  Perhaps  its  name  attracted  him,  as  appropriate  to 
his  case. 

The  notice  written  in  a  big  round  hand  announced  that  a 


224  The  Sword 


young  man  of  good  address  with  some  knowledge  of  swords- 
manship was  required  by  M.  Bertrand  des  Amis  on  the 
second  floor.  Above  this  notice  was  a  black  oblong  board, 
and  on  this  a  shield,  which  in  vulgar  terms  may  be  described 
as  red  charged  with  two  swords  crossed  and  four  fleurs  de 
lys,  one  in  each  angle  of  the  saltire.  Under  the  shield,  in 
letters  of  gold,  ran  the  legend: 

BERTRAND  DES  AMIS 

Maitre  en  fait  d'Armes  des  Academies  du  Roi 

Andr6-Louis  stood  considering.  He  could  claim,  he 
thought,  to  possess  the  qualifications  demanded.  He  was 
certainly  young  and  he  believed  of  tolerable  address,  whilst 
the  fencing-lessons  he  had  received  in  Nantes  had  given  him 
at  least  an  elementary  knowledge  of  swordsmanship.  The 
notice  looked  as  if  it  had  been  pinned  there  some  days  ago, 
suggesting  that  applicants  for  the  post  were  not  very  nu- 
merous. In  that  case  perhaps  M.  Bertrand  des  Amis  would 
not  be  too  exigent.  And  anyway,  Andr6-Louis  had  not 
eaten  for  four-and-twenty  hours,  and  whilst  the  employ- 
ment here  offered  —  the  precise  nature  of  which  he  was 
yet  to  ascertain  —  did  not  appear  to  be  such  as  Andre-Louis 
would  deliberately  have  chosen,  he  was  in  no  case  now  to  be 
fastidious. 

Then,  too,  he  liked  the  name  of  Bertrand  des  Amis.  It 
felicitously  combined  suggestions  of  chivalry  and  friendli- 
ness. Also  the  man's  profession  being  of  a  kind  that  is 
flavoured  with  romance  it  was  possible  that  M.  Bertrand 
des  Amis  would  not  ask  too  many  questions. 

In  the  end  he  climbed  to  the  second  floor.  On  the  landing 
he  paused  outside  a  door,  on  which  was  written  "Academy 
of  M.  Bertrand  des  Amis."  He  pushed  this  open,  and  found 
himself  in  a  sparsely  furnished,  untenanted  antechamber. 
From  a  room  beyond,  the  door  of  which  was  closed,  came 
the  stamping  of  feet,  the  click  and  slither  of  steel  upon  steel, 
and  dominating  these  sounds  a  vibrant,  sonorous  voice 


Transition  225 


speaking  a  language  that  was  certainly  French;  but  such 
French  as  is  never  heard  outside  a  fencing-school. 

"Coulez!  Mais,  coulez  done!  ...  So!  Now  the  flancon- 
nade  —  en  carte.  .  .  .  And  here  is  the  riposte.  .  .  .  Let  us 
begin  again.  Come!  The  ward  of  tierce.  .  .  .  Make  the 
coup6,  and  then  the  quinte  par  dessus  les  armes.  .  .  .  O, 
mais  allongez!  Allongez!  Allez  au  fond!"  the  voice  cried 
in  expostulation.  "Come,  that  was  better."  The  blades 
ceased. 

"Remember:  the  hand  in  pronation,  the  elbow  not  too 
far  out.  That  will  do  for  to-day.  On  Wednesday  we  shall 
see  you  tirer  au  mur.  It  is  more  deliberate.  Speed  will 
follow  when  the  mechanism  of  the  movements  is  more  as- 
sured." 

Another  voice  murmured  in  answer.  The  steps  moved 
aside.  The  lesson  was  at  an  end.  Andre-Louis  tapped  on 
the  door. 

It  was  opened  by  a  tall,  slender,  gracefully  proportioned 
man  of  perhaps  forty.  Black  silk  breeches  and  stockings 
ending  in  light  shoes  clothed  him  from  the  waist  down. 
Above  he  was  encased  to  the  chin  in  a  closely  fitting 
plastron  of  leather.  His  face  was  aquiline  and  swarthy,  his 
eyes  full  and  dark,  his  mouth  firm  and  his  clubbed  hair 
was  of  a  lustrous  black  with  here  and  there  a  thread  of 
silver  showing. 

In  the  crook  of  his  left  arm  he  carried  a  fencing-mask,  a 
thing  of  leather  with  a  wire  grating  to  protect  the  eyes. 
His  keen  glance  played  over  Andr6-Louis  from  head  to  foot. 

"Monsieur?"  he  inquired,  politely. 

It  was  clear  that  he  mistook  Andr6-Louis'  quality,  which 
is  not  surprising,  for  despite  his  sadly  reduced  fortunes,  his 
exterior  was  irreproachable,  and  M.  des  Amis  was  not  to 
guess  that  he  carried  upon  his  back  the  whole  of  his  pos- 
sessions. 

"You  have  a  notice  below,  monsieur,"  he  said,  and  from 
the  swift  lighting  of  the  fencing-master's  eyes  he  saw  that 
he  had  been  correct  in  his  assumption  that  applicants  for 


226  The  Sword 


the  position  had  not  been  jostling  one  another  on  his  thresh- 
old. And  then  that  flash  of  satisfaction  was  followed  by  a 
look  of  surprise. 

"You  are  come  in  regard  to  that?" 

Andre-Louis  shrugged  and  half  smiled.  "One  must  live," 
said  he. 

"But  come  in.  Sit  down  there.  I  shall  be  at  your  ...  I 
shall  be  free  to  attend  to  you  in  a  moment." 

Andre-Louis  took  a  seat  on  the  bench  ranged  against  one 
of  the  whitewashed  walls.  The  room  was  long  and  low,  its 
floor  entirely  bare.  Plain  wooden  forms  such  as  that  which 
he  occupied  were  placed  here  and  there  against  the  wall. 
These  last  were  plastered  with  fencing  trophies,  masks, 
crossed  foils,  stuffed  plastrons,  and  a  variety  of  swords, 
daggers,  and  targets,  belonging  to  a  variety  of  ages  and 
countries.  There  was  also  a  portrait  of  an  obese,  big-nosed 
gentleman  in  an  elaborately  curled  wig,  wearing  the  blue 
ribbon  of  the  Saint  Esprit,  in  whom  Andr£-Louis  recog- 
nized the  King.  And  there  was  a  framed  parchment  —  M. 
des  Amis'  certificate  from  the  King's  Academy.  A  bookcase 
occupied  one  corner,  and  near  this,  facing  the  last  of  the 
four  windows  that  abundantly  lighted  the  long  room,  there 
was  a  small  writing-table  and  an  armchair.  A  plump  and 
beautifully  dressed  young  gentleman  stood  by  this  table  in 
the  act  of  resuming  coat  and  wig.  M.  des  Amis  sauntered 
over  to  him  —  moving,  thought  Andr£-Louis,  with  ex- 
traordinary grace  and  elasticity  —  and  stood  in  talk  with 
him  whilst  also  assisting  him  to  complete  his  toilet. 

At  last  the  young  gentleman  took  his  departure,  mopping 
himself  with  a  fine  kerchief  that  left  a  trail  of  perfume  on  the 
air.  M.  des  Amis  closed  the  door,  and  turned  to  the  appli- 
cant, who  rose  at  once. 

"Where  have  you  studied?"  quoth  the  fencing-master 
abruptly. 

"Studied?"  Andr6-Louis  was  taken  aback  by  the  ques- 
tion. "Oh,  at  Louis  Le  Grand." 

M.  des  Amis  frowned,  looking  up  sharply  as  if  to  see 


Transition  227 


whether  his  applicant  was  taking  the  liberty  of  amusing 
himself. 

" In  Heaven's  name!  I  am  not  asking  you  where  you  did 
your  humanities,  but  in  what  academy  you  studied  fencing." 

"Oh  —  fencing!"  It  had  hardly  ever  occurred  to  Andr£- 
Louis  that  the  sword  ranked  seriously  as  a  study.  "I  never 
studied  it  very  much.  I  had  some  lessons  in  ...  in  the 
country  once." 

The  master's  eyebrows  went  up.  "But  then?"  he  cried. 
"Why  trouble  to  come  up  two  flights  of  stairs?"  He  was 
impatient. 

"The  notice  does  not  demand  a  high  degree  of  proficiency. 
If  I  am  not  proficient  enough,  yet  knowing  the  rudiments  I 
can  easily  improve.  I  learn  most  things  readily,"  Andre- 
Louis  commended  himself.  "For  the  rest:  I  possess  the 
other  qualifications.  I  am  young,  as  you  observe:  and  I 
leave  you  to  judge  whether  I  am  wrong  in  assuming  that 
my  address  is  good.  I  am  by  profession  a  man  of  the  robe, 
though  I  realize  that  the  motto  here  is  cedat  toga  armis." 

M.  des  Amis  smiled  approvingly.  Undoubtedly  the  young 
man  had  a  good  address,  and  a  certain  readiness  of  wit,  it 
would  appear.  He  ran  a  critical  eye  over  his  physical  points. 

"What  is  your  name?"  he  asked. 

Andr6-Louis  hesitated  a  moment.  "Andr6  Louis,"  he 
said. 

The  dark,  keen  eyes  conned  him  more  searchingly. 

"Well?  Andre-Louis  what?" 

"Just  Andr£  Louis.   Louis  is  my  surname." 

"Oh!  An  odd  surname.  You  come  from  Brittany  by 
your  accent.  Why  did  you  leave  it?" 

"To  save  my  skin,"  he  answered,  without  reflecting. 
And  then  made  haste  to  cover  the  blunder.  "I  have  an 
enemy,"  he  explained. 

M.  des  Amis  frowned,  stroking  his  square  chin.  "You 
ran  away?" 

"You  may  say  so." 

"A  coward,  eh?" 


228  The  Sword 


"I  don't  think  so."  And  then  he  lied  romantically.  Surely 
a  man  who  lived  by  the  sword  should  have  a  weakness  for 
the  romantic.  "You  see,  my  enemy  is  a  swordsman  of  great 
strength  —  the  best  blade  in  the  province,  if  not  the  best 
blade  in  France.  That  is  his  repute.  I  thought  I  would 
come  to  Paris  to  learn  something  of  the  art,  and  then  go 
back  and  kill  him.  That,  to  be  frank,  is  why  your  notice 
attracted  me.  You  see,  I  have  not  the  means  to  take  lessons 
otherwise.  I  thought  to  find  work  here  in  the  law.  But  I 
have  failed.  There  are  too  many  lawyers  in  Paris  as  it  is, 
and  whilst  waiting  I  have  consumed  the  little  money  that 
I  had,  so  that  ...  so  that,  enfin,  your  notice  seemed  to  me 
something  to  which  a  special  providence  had  directed  me." 

M.  des  Amis  gripped  him  by  the  shoulders,  and  looked  into 
his  face. 

"Is  this  true,  my  friend?"  he  asked. 

"Not  a  word  of  it,"  said  Andr6-Louis,  wrecking  his 
chances  on  an  irresistible  impulse  to  say  the  unexpected. 
But  he  did  n't  wreck  them.  M.  des  Amis  burst  into 
laughter;  and  having  laughed  his  fill,  confessed  himself 
charmed  by  his  applicant's  fundamental  honesty. 

"Take  off  your  coat,"  he  said,  "and  let  us  see  what  you 
can  do.  Nature,  at  least,  designed  you  for  a  swordsman. 
You  are  light,  active,  and  supple,  with  a  good  length  of 
arm,  and  you  seem  intelligent.  I  may  make  something  of 
you,  teach  you  enough  for  my  purpose,  which  is  that  you 
should  give  the  elements  of  the  art  to  new  pupils  before 
I  take  them  in  hand  to  finish  them.  Let  us  try.  Take  that 
mask  and  foil,  and  come  over  here." 

He  led  him  to  the  end  of  the  room,  where  the  bare  floor 
was  scored  with  lines  of  chalk  to  guide  the  beginner  in 
the  management  of  his  feet. 

At  the  end  of  a  ten  minutes'  bout,  M.  des  Amis  offered 
him  the  situation,  and  explained  it.  In  addition  to  impart- 
ing the  rudiments  of  the  art  to  beginners,  he  was  to  brush 
out  the  fencing-room  every  morning,  keep  the  foils  fur- 
bished, assist  the  gentlemen  who  came  for  lessons  to  dress 


Transition  229 


and  undress,  and  make  himself  generally  useful.  His  wages 
for  the  present  were  to  be  forty  livres  a  month,  and  he 
might  sleep  in  an  alcove  behind  the  fencing-room  if  he  had 
no  other  lodging. 

The  position,  you  see,  had  its  humiliations.  But,  if 
Andr6-Louis  would  hope  to  dine,  he  must  begin  by  eating 
his  pride  as  an  hors  d'ceuvre. 

"And  so,"  he  said,  controlling  a  grimace,  "the  robe 
yields  not  only  to  the  sword,  but  to  the  broom  as  well.  Be  it 
so.  I  stay." 

It  is  characteristic  of  him  that,  having  made  that  choice, 
he  should  have  thrown  himself  into  the  work  with  enthusi- 
asm. It  was  ever  his  way  to  do  whatever  he  did  with  all 
the  resources  of  his  mind  and  energies  of  his  body.  When 
he  was  not  instructing  very  young  gentlemen  in  the  ele- 
ments of  the  art,  showing  them  the  elaborate  and  intricate 
salute  —  which  with  a  few  days'  hard  practice  he  had 
mastered  to  perfection  —  and  the  eight  guards,  he  was  him- 
self hard  at  work  on  those  same  guards,  exercising  eye, 
wrist,  and  knees. 

Perceiving  his  enthusiasm,  and  seeing  the  obvious  possi- 
bilities it  opened  out  of  turning  him  into  a  really  effective 
assistant,  M.  des  Amis  presently  took  him  more  seriously 
in  hand. 

"Your  application  and  zeal,  my  friend,  are  deserving  of 
more  than  forty  livres  a  month,"  the  master  informed  him 
at  the  end  of  a  week.  "For  the  present,  however,  I  will 
make  up  what  else  I  consider  due  to  you  by  imparting  to 
you  secrets  of  this  noble  art.  Your  future  depends  upon 
how  you  profit  by  your  exceptional  good  fortune  in  receiv- 
ing instruction  from  me." 

Thereafter  every  morning  before  the  opening  of  the  acad- 
emy, the  master  would  fence  for  half  an  hour  with  his  new 
assistant.  Under  this  really  excellent  tuition  Andr£-Louis 
improved  at  a  rate  that  both  astounded  and  flattered  M. 
des  Amis.  He  would  have  been  less  flattered  and  more 
astounded  had  he  known  that  at  least  half  the  secret  of 


230  The  Sword 


Andr6-Louis'  amazing  progress  lay  in  the  fact  that  he  was 
devouring  the  contents  of  the  master's  library,  which  was 
made  up  of  a  dozen  or  so  treatises  on  fencing  by  such  great 
masters  as  La  Bessiere,  Danet,  and  the  syndic  of  the  King's 
Academy,  Augustin  Rousseau.  To  M.  des  Amis,  whose 
swordsmanship  was  all  based  on  practice  and  not  at  all  on 
theory,  who  was  indeed  no  theorist  or  student  in  any  sense, 
that  little  library  was  merely  a  suitable  adjunct  to  a  fenc- 
ing-academy, a  proper  piece  of  decorative  furniture.  The 
books  themselves  meant  nothing  to  him  in  any  other  sense. 
He  had  not  the  type  of  mind  that  could  have  read  them 
with  profit  nor  could  he  understand  that  another  should  do 
so.  Andre-Louis,  on  the  contrary,  a  man  with  the  habit  of 
study,  with  the  acquired  faculty  of  learning  from  books,  read 
those  works  with  enormous  profit,  kept  their  precepts  in 
mind,  critically  set  off  those  of  one  master  against  those  of 
another,  and  made  for  himself  a  choice  which  he  proceeded 
to  put  into  practice. 

At  the  end  of  a  month  it  suddenly  dawned  upon  M.  des 
Amis  that  his  assistant  had  developed  into  a  fencer  of  very 
considerable  force,  a  man  in  a  bout  with  whom  it  became 
necessary  to  exert  himself  if  he  were  to  escape  defeat. 

" I  said  from  the  first,"  he  told  him  one  day,  "that  Nature 
designed  you  for  a  swordsman.  See  how  justified  I  was, 
and  see  also  how  well  I  have  known  how  to  mould  the  ma- 
terial with  which  Nature  has  equipped  you." 

"To  the  master  be  the  glory,"  said  Andr6-Louis. 

His  relations  with  M.  des  Amis  had  meanwhile  become  of 
the  friendliest,  and  he  was  now  beginning  to  receive  from 
him  other  pupils  than  mere  beginners.  In  fact  Andre-Louis 
was  becoming  an  assistant  in  a  much  fuller  sense  of  the 
word.  M.  des  Amis,  a  chivalrous,  open-handed  fellow,  far 
from  taking  advantage  of  what  he  had  guessed  to  be  the 
young  man's  difficulties,  rewarded  his  zeal  by  increasing 
his  wages  to  four  louis  a  month. 

From  the  earnest  and  thoughtful  study  of  the  theories 
of  others,  it  followed  now  —  as  not  uncommonly  happens 


Transition  231 


—  that  Andr6-Louis  came  to  develop  theories  of  his  own. 
He  lay  one  June  morning  on  his  little  truckle  bed  in  the 
alcove  behind  the  academy,  considering  a  passage  that  he 
had  read  last  night  in  Danet  on  double  and  triple  feints. 
It  had  seemed  to  him  when  reading  it  that  Danet  had  stopped 
short  on  the  threshold  of  a  great  discovery  in  the  art  of 
fencing.  Essentially  a  theorist,  Andre-Louis  perceived  the 
theory  suggested,  which  Danet  himself  in  suggesting  it  had 
not  perceived.  He  lay  now  on  his  back,  surveying  the 
cracks  in  the  ceiling  and  considering  this  matter  further 
with  the  lucidity  that  early  morning  often  brings  to  an  acute 
intelligence.  You  are  to  remember  that  for  close  upon  two 
months  now  the  sword  had  been  Andr6-Louis'  daily  exer- 
cise and  almost  hourly  thought.  Protracted  concentration 
upon  the  subject  was  giving  him  an  extraordinary  penetra- 
tion of  vision.  Swordsmanship  as  he  learnt  and  taught  and 
saw  it  daily  practised  consisted  of  a  series  of  attacks  and 
parries,  a  series  of  disengages  from  one  line  into  another. 
But  always  a  limited  series.  A  half-dozen  disengages  on 
either  side  was,  strictly  speaking,  usually  as  far  as  any  en- 
gagement went.  Then  one  recommenced.,  But  even  so, 
these  disengages  were  fortuitous.  What  if  from  first  to  last 
they  should  be  calculated? 

That  was  part  of  the  thought  —  one  of  the  two  legs  on 
which  his  theory  was  to  stand;  the  other  was:  what  would 
happen  if  one  so  elaborated  Danet's  ideas  on  the  triple 
feint  as  to  merge  them  into  a  series  of  actual  calculated 
disengages  to  culminate  at  the  fourth  or  fifth  or  even  sixth 
disengage?  That  is  to  say,  if  one  were  to  make  a  series  of 
attacks  inviting  ripostes  again  to  be  countered,  each  of 
which  was  not  intended  to  go  home,  but  simply  to  play  the 
opponent's  blade  into  a  line  that  must  open  him  ultimately, 
and  as  predetermined,  for  an  irresistible  lunge.  Each  counter 
of  the  opponent's  would  have  to  be  preconsidered  in  this 
widening  of  his  guard,  a  widening  so  gradual  that  he  should 
himself  be  unconscious  of  it,  and  throughout  intent  upon 
getting  home  his  own  point  on  one  of  those  counters. 


232  The  Sword 


Andr6-Louis  had  been  in  his  time  a  chess-player  of  some 
force,  and  at  chess  he  had  excelled  by  virtue  of  his  capacity 
for  thinking  ahead.  'That  virtue  applied  to  fencing  should 
all  but  revolutionize  the  art.  It  was  so  applied  already,  of 
course,  but  only  in  an  elementary  and  very  limited  fashion, 
in  mere  feints,  single,  double,  or  triple.  But  even  the  triple 
feint  should  be  a  clumsy  device  compared  with  this  method 
upon  which  he  theorized. 

He  considered  further,  and  the  conviction  grew  that  he 
held  the  key  of  a  discovery.  He  was  impatient  to  put  his 
theory  to  the  test. 

That  morning  he  was  given  a  pupil  of  some  force,  against 
whom  usually  he  was  hard  put  to  it  to  defend  himself. 
Coming  on  guard,  he  made  up  his  mind  to  hit  him  on  the 
fourth  disengage,  predetermining  the  four  passes  that  should 
lead  up  to  it.  They  engaged  in  tierce,  and  Andr£-Louis  led 
the  attack  by  a  beat  and  a  straightening  of  the  arm.  Came 
the  demi-contre  he  expected,  which  he  promptly  countered 
by  a  thrust  in  quinte;  this  being  countered  again,  he  reentered 
still  lower,  and  being  again  correctly  parried,  as  he  had  cal- 
culated, he  lunged  swirling  his  point  into  carte,  and  got 
home  full  upon  his  opponent's  breast.  The  ease  of  it  sur- 
prised him. 

They  began  again.  This  time  he  resolved  to  go  in  on  the 
fifth  disengage,  and  in  on  that  he  went  with  the  same  ease. 
Then,  complicating  the  matter  further,  he  decided  to  try 
the  sixth,  and  worked  out  in  his  mind  the  combination  of 
the  five  preliminary  engages.  Yet  again  he  succeeded  as 
easily  as  before. 

The  young  gentleman  opposed  to  him  laughed  with  just 
a  tinge  of  mortification  in  his  voice. 

"  I  am  all  to  pieces  this  morning,"  he  said. 

"You  are  not  of  your  usual  force,"  Andr6-Louis  po- 
litely agreed.  And  then  greatly  daring,  always  to  test  that 
theory  of  his  to  the  uttermost:  "So  much  so,"  he  added, 
"that  I  could  almost  be  sure  of  hitting  you  as  and  when  I 
declare." 


Transition  233 


The  capable  pupil  looked  at  him  with  a  half -sneer.  "Ah, 
that,  no,"  said  he. 

"Let  us  try.  On  the  fourth  disengage  I  shall  touch  you. 
Allons!  En  garde!" 

And  as  he  promised,  so  it  happened. 

The  young  gentleman  who,  hitherto,  had  held  no  great 
opinion  of  Andre-Louis'  swordsmanship,  accounting  him 
well  enough  for  purposes  of  practice  when  the  master  was 
otherwise  engaged,  opened  wide  his  eyes.  In  a  burst  of 
mingled  generosity  and  intoxication,  Andre-Louis  was  al- 
most for  disclosing  his  method  —  a  method  which  a  little 
later  was  to  become  a  commonplace  of  the  fencing-rooms. 
Betimes  he  checked  himself.  To  reveal  his  secret  would  be 
to  destroy  the  prestige  that  must  accrue  to  him  from  exer- 
cising it. 

At  noon,  the  academy  being  empty,  M.  des  Amis  called 
Andr6-Louis  to  one  of  the  occasional  lessons  which  he  still 
received.  And  for  the  first  time  in  all  his  experience  with 
Andr6-Louis,  M.  des  Amis  received  from  him  a  full  hit  in 
the  course  of  the  first  bout.  He  laughed,  well  pleased,  like 
the  generous  fellow  he  was. 

"Aha!  You  are  improving  very  fast,  my  friend." 

He  still  laughed,  though  not  so  well  pleased,  when  he 
was  hit  in  the  second  bout.  After  that  he  settled  down  to 
fight  in  earnest  with  the  result  that  Andr6-Louis  was  hit 
three  times  in  succession.  The  speed  and  accuracy  of  the 
fencing-master  when  fully  exerting  himself  disconcerted 
Andre-Louis'  theory,  which  for  want  of  being  exercised  in 
practice  still  demanded  too  much  consideration. 

But  that  his  theory  was  sound  he  accounted  fully  estab- 
lished, and  with  that,  for  the  moment,  he  was  content.  It 
remained  only  to  perfect  by  practice  the  application  of  it. 
To  this  he  now  devoted  himself  with  the  passionate  en- 
thusiasm of  the  discoverer.  He  confined  himself  to  a  half- 
dozen  combinations,  which  he  practised  assiduously  until 
each  had  become  almost  automatic.  And  he  proved  their 
infallibility  upon  the  best  among  M.  des  Amis'  pupils. 


234  The  Sword 


Finally,  a  week  or  so  after  that  last  bout  of  his  with  des 
Amis,  the  master  called  him  once  more  to  practice. 

Hit  again  in  the  first  bout,  the  master  set  himself  to 
exert  all  his  skill  against  his  assistant.  But  to-day  it  availed 
him  nothing  before  Andre-Louis'  impetuous  attacks. 

After  the  third  hit,  M.  des  Amis  stepped  back  and 
pulled  off  his  mask. 

"What's  this?"  he  asked.  He  was  pale,  and  his  dark 
brows  were  contracted  in  a  frown.  Not  in  years  had  he 
been  so  wounded  in  his  self-love.  "Have  you  been  taught 
a  secret  botte?" 

He  had  always  boasted  that  he  knew  too  much  about  the 
sword  to  believe  any  nonsense  about  secret  bottes ;  but  this 
performance  of  Andr£-Louis'  had  shaken  his  convictions 
on  that  score. 

"No,"  said  Andr£-Louis.  "I  have  been  working  hard; 
and  it  happens  that  I  fence  with  my  brains." 

"So  I  perceive.  Well,  well,  I  think  I  have  taught  you 
enough,  my  friend.  I  have  no  intention  of  having  an  as- 
sistant who  is  superior  to  myself." 

"Little  danger  of  that,"  said  Andr6-Louis,  smiling 
pleasantly.  "You  have  been  fencing  hard  all  morning,  and 
you  are  tired,  whilst  I,  having  done  little,  am  entirely  fresh. 
That  is  the  only  secret  of  my  momentary  success." 

His  tact  and  the  fundamental  good-nature  of  M.  des  Amis 
prevented  the  matter  from  going  farther  along  the  road  it 
was  almost  threatening  to  take.  And  thereafter,  when  they 
fenced  together,  Andre-Louis,  who  continued  daily  to 
perfect  his  theory  into  an  almost  infallible  system,  saw  to 
it  that  M.  des  Amis  always  scored  against  him  at  least  two 
hits  for  every  one  of  his  own.  So  much  he  would  grant  to 
discretion,  but  no  more.  He  desired  that  M.  des  Amis 
should  be  conscious  of  his  strength,  without,  however,  dis- 
covering so  much  of  its  real  extent  as  would  have  excited  in 
him  an  unnecessary  degree  of  jealousy. 

And  so  well  did  he  contrive  that  whilst  he  became  ever 
of  greater  assistance  to  the  master  —  for  his  style  and 


Transition  235 


general  fencing,  too,  had  materially  improved  —  he  was 
also  a  source  of  pride  to  him  as  the  most  brilliant  of  all  the 
pupils  that  had  ever  passed  through  his  academy.  Never 
did  Andre-Louis  disillusion  him  by  revealing  the  fact  that 
his  skill  was  due  far  more  to  M.  des  Amis'  library  and  his 
own  mother  wit  than  to  any  lessons  received. 


CHAPTER  II 
QUOS  DEUS  VULT  PERDERE 

ONCE  again,  precisely  as  he  had  done  when  he  joined  the 
Binet  troupe,  did  Andr6-Louis  now  settle  down  whole- 
heartedly to  the  new  profession  into  which  necessity  had 
driven  him,  and  in  which  he  found  effective  concealment 
from  those  who  might  seek  him  to  his  hurt.  This  profession 
might  —  although  in  fact  it  did  not  —  have  brought  him 
to  consider  himself  at  last  as  a  man  of  action.  He  had  not, 
however,  on  that  account  ceased  to  be  a  man  of  thought, 
and  the  events  of  the  spring  and  summer  months  of  that 
year  1789  in  Paris  provided  him  with  abundant  matter  for 
reflection.  He  read  there  in  the  raw  what  is  perhaps  the 
most  amazing  page  in  the  history  of  human  development, 
and  in  the  end  he  was  forced  to  the  conclusion  that  all  his 
early  preconceptions  had  been  at  fault,  and  that  it  was  such 
exalted,  passionate  enthusiasts  as  Vilmorin  who  had  been 
right. 

I  suspect  him  of  actually  taking  pride  in  the  fact  that  he 
had  been  mistaken,  complacently  attributing  his  error  to 
the  circumstance  that  he  had  been,  himself,  of  too  sane  and 
logical  a  mind  to  gauge  the  depths  of  human  insanity  now 
revealed. 

He  watched  the  growth  of  hunger,  the  increasing  poverty 
and  distress  of  Paris  during  that  spring,  and  assigned  it  to 
its  proper  cause,  together  with  the  patience  with  which  the 
people  bore  it.  The  world  of  France  was  in  a  state  of  hushed, 
of  paralyzed  expectancy,  waiting  for  the  States  General  to 
assemble  and  for  centuries  of  tyranny  to  end.  And  because 
of  this  expectancy,  industry  had  come  to  a  standstill,  the 
stream  of  trade  had  dwindled  to  a  trickle.  Men  would  not 
buy  or  sell  until  they  clearly  saw  the  means  by  which  the 
genius  of  the  Swiss  banker,  M.  Necker,  was  to  deliver  them 


Quos  Deus  vult  Perdere  237 

from  this  morass.  And  because  of  this  paralysis  of  affairs 
the  men  of  the  people  were  thrown  out  of  work  and  left  to 
starve  with  their  wives  and  children. 

Looking  on,  Andre-Louis  smiled  grimly.  So  far  he  was 
right.  The  sufferers  were  ever  the  proletariat.  The  men 
who  sought  to  make  this  revolution,  the  electors  —  here  in 
Paris  as  elsewhere  —  were  men  of  substance,  notable  bour- 
geois, wealthy  traders.  And  whilst  these,  despising  the 
canaille,  and  envying  the  privileged,  talked  largely  of 
equality  —  by  which  they  meant  an  ascending  equality 
that  should  confuse  themselves  with  the  gentry  —  the 
proletariat  perished  of  want  in  its  kennels. 

At  last  with  the  month  of  May  the  deputies  arrived, 
Andre-Louis'  friend  Le  Chapelier  prominent  amongst  them, 
and  the  States  General  were  inaugurated  at  Versailles.  It 
was  then  that  affairs  began  to  become  interesting,  then  that 
Andre-Louis  began  seriously  to  doubt  the  soundness  of  the 
views  he  had  held  hitherto. 

When  the  royal  proclamation  had  gone  forth  decreeing 
that  the  deputies  of  the  Third  Estate  should  number  twice 
as  many  as  those  of  the  other  two  orders  together,  Andr6- 
Louis  had  believed  that  the  preponderance  of  votes  thus 
assured  to  the  Third  Estate  rendered  inevitable  the  re- 
forms to  which  they  had  pledged  themselves. 

But  he  had  reckoned  without  the  power  of  the  privileged 
orders  over  the  proud  Austrian  queen,  and  her  power  over 
the  obese,  phlegmatic,  irresolute  monarch.  That  the  priv- 
ileged orders  should  deliver  battle  in  defence  of  their 
privileges,  Andre-Louis  could  understand.  Man  being 
what  he  is,  and  labouring  under  his  curse  of  acquisitive- 
ness, will  never  willingly  surrender  possessions,  whether 
they  be  justly  or  unjustly  held.  But  what  surprised  Andr6- 
Louis  was  the  unutterable  crassness  of  the  methods  by 
which  the  Privileged  ranged  themselves  for  battle.  They 
opposed  brute  force  to  reason  and  philosophy,  and  bat- 
talions of  foreign  mercenaries  to  ideas.  As  if  ideas  were  to 
be  impaled  on  bayonets! 


238  The  Sword 


The  war  between  the  Privileged  and  the  Court  on  one 
side,  and  the  Assembly  and  the  People  on  the  other  had 
begun. 

The  Third  Estate  contained  itself,  and  waited;  waited 
with  the  patience  of  nature;  waited  a  month  whilst,  with 
the  paralysis  of  business  now  complete,  the  skeleton  hand 
of  famine  took  a  firmer  grip  of  Paris;  waited  a  month  whilst 
Privilege  gradually  assembled  an  army  in  Versailles  to 
intimidate  it  —  an  army  of  fifteen  regiments,  nine  of  which 
were  Swiss  and  German  —  and  mounted  a  park  of  artillery 
before  the  building  in  which  the  deputies  sat.  But  the 
deputies  refused  to  be  intimidated;  they  refused  to  see 
the  guns  and  foreign  uniforms ;  they  refused  to  see  anything 
but  the  purpose  for  which  they  had  been  brought  together 
by  royal  proclamation. 

Thus  until  the  roth  of  June,  when  that  great  thinker  and 
metaphysician,  the  Abbe  Sieyes,  gave  the  signal:  "It  is 
time,"  said  he,  "to  cut  the  cable." 

And  the  opportunity  came  soon,  at  the  very  beginning  of 
July.  M.  du  Chatelet,  a  harsh,  haughty  disciplinarian,  pro- 
posed to  transfer  the  eleven  French  Guards  placed  under 
arrest  from  the  military  gaol  of  the  Abbaye  to  the  filthy 
prison  of  Bice'tre  reserved  for  thieves  and  felons  of  the 
lowest  order.  Word  of  that  intention  going  forth,  the  people 
at  last  met  violence  with  violence.  A  mob  four  thousand 
strong  broke  into  the  Abbaye,  and  delivered  thence  not  only 
the  eleven  guardsmen,  but  all  the  other  prisoners,  with  the 
exception  of  one  whom  they  discovered  to  be  a  thief,  and 
whom  they  put  back  again. 

That  was  open  revolt  at  last,  and  with  revolt  Privilege 
knew  how  to  deal.  It  would  strangle  this  mutinous  Paris 
in  the  iron  grip  of  the  foreign  regiments.  Measures  were 
quickly  concerted.  Old  Mar6chal  de  Broglie,  a  veteran  of 
the  Seven  Years'  War,  imbued  with  a  soldier's  contempt  for 
civilians,  conceiving  that  the  sight  of  a  uniform  would  be 
enough  to  restore  peace  and  order,  took  control  with  Besen- 
val  as  his  second-in-command.  The  foreign  regiments  were 


Quos  Deus  vult  Perdere  239 

stationed  in  the  environs  of  Paris,  regiments  whose  very 
names  were  an  irritation  to  the  Parisians,  regiments  of 
Reisbach,  of  Diesbach,  of  Nassau,  Esterhazy,  and  Roehmer. 
Reinforcements  of  Swiss  were  sent  to  the  Bastille  between 
whose  crenels  already  since  the  3Oth  of  June  were  to  be  seen 
the  menacing  mouths  of  loaded  cannon. 

On  the  loth  of  July  the  electors  once  more  addressed  the 
King  to  request  the  withdrawal  of  the  troops.  They  were 
answered  next  day  that  the  troops  served  the  purpose  of  de- 
fending the  liberties  of  the  Assembly !  And  on  the  next  day 
to  that,  which  was  a  Sunday,  the  philanthropist  Dr.  Guillo- 
tin  —  whose  philanthropic  engine  of  painless  death  was  before 
very  long  to  find  a  deal  of  work  —  came  from  the  Assembly, 
of  which  he  was  a  member,  to  assure  the  electors  of  Paris 
that  all  was  well,  appearances  notwithstanding,  since  Necker 
was  more  firmly  in  the  saddle  than  ever.  He  did  not  know 
that  at  the  very  moment  in  which  he  was  speaking  so  con- 
fidently, the  oft-dismissed  and  oft-recalled  M.  Necker  had 
just  been  dismissed  yet  again  by  the  hostile  cabal  about  the 
Queen.  Privilege  wanted  conclusive  measures,  and  con- 
clusive measures  it  would  have  —  conclusive  to  itself. 

And  at  the  same  time  yet  another  philanthropist,  also  a 
doctor,  one  Jean-Paul  Mara,  of  Italian  extraction  —  better 
known  as  Marat,  the  gallicized  form  of  name  he  adopted 
—  a  man  of  letters,  too,  who  had  spent  some  years  in  Eng- 
land, and  there  published  several  works  on  sociology,  was 
writing: 

"Have  a  care!  Consider  what  would  be  the  fatal  effect  of 
a  seditious  movement.  If  you  should  have  the  misfortune  to 
give  way  to  that,  you  will  be  treated  as  people  in  revolt,  and 
blood  will  flow." 

Andr6-Louis  was  in  the  gardens  of  the  Palais  Royal,  that 
place  of  shops  and  puppet-shows,  of  circus  and  caf6s,  of 
gaming  houses  and  brothels,  that  universal  rendezvous,  on 
that  Sunday  morning  when  the  news  of  Necker's  dismissal 
spread,  carrying  with  it  dismay  and  fury.  Into  Necker's  dis- 
missal the  people  read  the  triumph  of  the  party  hostile  to 


240  The  Sword 


themselves.  It  sounded  the  knell  of  all  hope  of  redress  of 
their  wrongs. 

He  beheld  a  slight  young  man  with  a  pock-marked  face, 
redeemed  from  utter  ugliness  by  a  pair  of  magnificent  eyes, 
leap  to  a  table  outside  the  Cafe  de  Foy,  a  drawn  sword  in  his 
hand,  crying,  "To  arms!"  And  then  upon  the  silence  of 
astonishment  that  cry  imposed,  this  young  man  poured  a 
flood  of  inflammatory  eloquence,  delivered  in  a  voice  marred 
at  moments  by  a  stutter.  He  told  the  people  that  the  Ger- 
mans on  the  Champ  de  Mars  would  enter  Paris  that  night  to 
butcher  the  inhabitants.  "Let  us  mount  a  cockade!"  he 
cried,  and  tore  a  leaf  from  a  tree  to  serve  his  purpose  —  the 
green  cockade  of  hope. 

Enthusiasm  swept  the  crowd,  a  motley  crowd  made  up  of 
men  and  women  of  every  class,  from  vagabond  to  nobleman, 
from  harlot  to  lady  of  fashion.  Trees  were  despoiled  of  their 
leaves,  and  the  green  cockade  was  flaunted  from  almost 
every  head. 

"You  are  caught  between  two  fires,"  the  incendiary's 
stuttering  voice  raved  on.  "Between  the  Germans  on  the 
Champ  de  Mars  and  the  Swiss  in  the  Bastille.  To  arms,  then ! 
To  arms!" 

Excitement  boiled  up  and  over.  From  a  neighbouring 
waxworks  show  came  the  bust  of  Necker,  and  presently  a 
bust  of  that  comedian  the  Duke  of  Orleans,  who  had  a  party 
and  who  was  as  ready  as  any  other  of  the  budding  oppor- 
tunists of  those  days  to  take  advantage  of  the  moment  for 
his  own  aggrandizement.  The  bust  of  Necker  was  draped 
with  crgpe. 

Andr6-Louis  looked  on,  and  grew  afraid.  Marat's  pam- 
phlet had  impressed  him.  It  had  expressed  what  himself  he 
had  expressed  more  than  half  a  year  ago  to  the  mob  at 
Rennes.  This  crowd,  he  felt,  must  be  restrained.  That  hot- 
headed, irresponsible  stutterer  would  have  the  town  in  a 
blaze  by  night  unless  something  were  done.  The  young 
man,  a  causeless  advocate  of  the  Palais  named  Camille 
Dcsmoulins,  later  to  become  famous,  leapt  down  from  his 


Deus  vult  Perdere  241 


table  still  waving  his  sword,  still  shouting,  "To  arms!  Fol- 
low me!"  Andre-Louis  advanced  to  occupy  the  improvised 
rostrum,  which  the  stutterer  had  just  vacated,  to  make  an 
effort  at  counteracting  that  inflammatory  performance.  He 
thrust  through  the  crowd,  and  came  suddenly  face  to  face 
with  a  tall  man  beautifully  dressed,  whose  handsome  coun- 
tenance was  sternly  set,  whose  great  sombre  eyes  smouldered 
as  if  with  suppressed  anger. 

Thus  face  to  face,  each  looking  into  the  eyes  of  the  other, 
they  stood  for  a  long  moment,  the  jostling  crowd  streaming 
past  them,  unheeded.  Then  Andre-Louis  laughed. 

"That  fellow,  too,  has  a  very  dangerous  gift  of  eloquence, 
M.  le  Marquis,"  he  said.  "In  fact  there  are  a  number  of 
such  in  France  to-day.  They  grow  from  the  soil,  which  you 
and  yours  have  irrigated  with  the  blood  of  the  martyrs  of 
liberty.  Soon  it  may  be  your  blood  instead.  The  soil  is 
parched,  and  thirsty  for  it." 

"Gallows-bird!"  he  was  answered.  "The  police  will  do 
your  affair  for  you.  I  shall  tell  the  Lieutenant-General  that 
you  are  to  be  found  in  Paris." 

"My  God,  man!"  cried  Andr6-Louis,  "will  you  never  get 
sense?  Will  you  talk  like  that  of  Lieu  tenant-Generals  when 
Paris  itself  is  likely  to  tumble  about  your  ears  or  take  fire 
under  your  feet?  Raise  your  voice,  M.  le  Marquis.  De- 
nounce me  here,  to  these.  You  will  make  a  hero  of  me  in 
such  an  hour  as  this.  Or  shall  I  denounce  you?  I  think  I  will. 
I  think  it  is  high  time  you  received  your  wages.  Hi  !  You 
others,  listen  to  me!  Let  me  present  you  to  ..." 

A  rush  of  men  hurtled  against  him,  swept  him  along  with 
them,  do  what  he  would,  separating  him  from  M.  de  La 
Tour  d'Azyr,  so  oddly  met.  He  sought  to  breast  that  hu- 
man torrent;  the  Marquis,  caught  in  an  eddy  of  it,  remained 
where  he  had  been,  and  Andre-Louis'  last  glimpse  of  him 
was  of  a  man  smiling  with  tight  lips,  an  ugly  smile. 

Meanwhile  the  gardens  were  emptying  in  the  wake  of  that 
stuttering  firebrand  who  had  mounted  the  green  cockade. 
The  human  torrent  poured  out  into  the  Rue  de  Richelieu, 


242  The  Sword 


and  AndreVLouis  perforce  must  surfer  himself  to  be  borne 
along  by  it,  at  least  as  far  as  the  Rue  du  Hasard.  There  he 
sidled  out  of  it,  and  having  no  wish  to  be  crushed  to  death 
or  to  take  further  part  in  the  madness  that  was  afoot,  he 
slipped  down  the  street,  and  so  got  home  to  the  deserted 
academy.  For  there  were  no  pupils  to-day,  and  even  M.  des 
Amis,  like  Andre-Louis,  had  gone  out  to  seek  for  news  of 
what  was  happening  at  Versailles. 

This  was  no  normal  state  of  things  at  the  Academy  of 
Bertrand  des  Amis.  Whatever  else  in  Paris  might  have  been 
at  a  standstill  lately,  the  fencing  academy  had  flourished  as 
never  hitherto.  Usually  both  the  master  and  his  assistant 
were  busy  from  morning  until  dusk,  and  already  Andr£- 
Louis  was  being  paid  now  by  the  lessons  that  he  gave,  the 
master  allowing  him  one  half  of  the  fee  in  each  case  for  him- 
self, an  arrangement  which  the  assistant  found  profitable. 
On  Sundays  the  academy  made  half-holiday;  but  on  this 
Sunday  such  had  been  the  state  of  suspense  and  ferment  in 
the  city  that  no  one  having  appeared  by  eleven  o'clock  both 
des  Amis  and  Andr6-Louis  had  gone  out.  Little  they  thought 
as  they  lightly  took  leave  of  each  other  —  they  were  very 
good  friends  by  now  —  that  they  were  never  to  meet  again 
in  this  world. 

Bloodshed  there  was  that  day  in  Paris.  On  the  Place 
Vend6me  a  detachment  of  dragoons  awaited  the  crowd  out 
of  which  Andr6-Louis  had  slipped.  The  horsemen  swept 
down  upon  the  mob,  dispersed  it,  smashed  the  waxen  effigy 
of  M.  Necker,  and  killed  one  man  on  the  spot  —  an  unfor- 
tunate French  Guard  who  stood  his  ground.  That  was  a  be- 
ginning. As  a  consequence  Besenval  brought  up  his  Swiss 
from  the  Champ  de  Mars  and  marshalled  them  in  battle 
order  on  the  Champs  filysees  with  four  pieces  of  artillery. 
His  dragoons  he  stationed  in  the  Place  Louis  XV.  That 
evening  an  enormous  crowd,  streaming  along  the  Champs 
£lys£es  and  the  Tuileries  Gardens,  considered  with  eyes  of 
alarm  that  warlike  preparation.  Some  insults  were  cast 
upon  those  foreign  mercenaries  and  some  stones  were  flung. 


Quos  Deus  vult  Perdere  243 

Besenval,  losing  his  head,  or  acting  under  orders,  sent  for  his 
dragoons  and  ordered  them  to  disperse  the  crowd.  But  that 
crowd  was  too  dense  to  be  dispersed  in  this  fashion ;  so  dense 
that  it  was  impossible  for  the  horsemen  to  move  without 
crushing  some  one.  There  were  several  crushed,  and  as  a 
consequence  when  the  dragoons,  led  by  the  Prince  de  Lam- 
besc,  advanced  into  the  Tuileries  Gardens,  the  outraged 
crowd  met  them  with  a  fusillade  of  stones  and  bottles.  Lam- 
besc  gave  the  order  to  fire.  There  was  a  stampede.  Pouring 
forth  from  the  Tuileries  through  the  city  went  those  indig- 
nant people  with  their  story  of  German  cavalry  trampling 
upon  women  and  children,  and  uttering  now  in  grimmest 
earnest  the  call  to  arms,  raised  at  noon  by  Desmoulins  in 
the  Palais  Royal. 

The  victims  were  taken  up  and  borne  thence,  and  amongst 
them  was  Bertrand  des  Amis,  himself  —  like  all  who  lived 
by  the  sword  —  an  ardent  upholder  of  the  noblesse, 
trampled  to  death  under  hooves  of  foreign  horsemen 
launched  by  the  noblesse  and  led  by  a  nobleman. 

To  Andr£-Louis,  waiting  that  evening  on  the  second  floor 
of  No.  13  Rue  du  Hasard  for  the  return  of  his  friend  and 
master,  four  men  of  the  people  brought  that  broken  body  of 
one  of  the  earliest  victims  of  the  Revolution  that  was  now 
launched  in  earnest. 


THE  ferment  of  Paris  which,  during  the  two  following  days, 
resembled  an  armed  camp  rather  than  a  city,  delayed  the 
burial  of  Bertrand  des  Amis  until  the  Wednesday  of  that 
eventful  week.  Amid  events  that  were  shaking  a  nation  to 
its  foundations  the  death  of  a  fencing-master  passed  almost 
unnoticed  even  among  his  pupils,  most  of  whom  did  not 
come  to  the  academy  during  the  two  days  that  his  body  lay 
there.  Some  few,  however,  did  come,  and  these  conveyed  the 
news  to  others,  with  the  result  that  the  master  was  followed 
to  Pere  Lachaise  by  a  score  of  young  men  at  the  head  of 
whom  as  chief  mourner  walked  Andre-Louis. 

There  were  no  relatives  to  be  advised  so  far  as  Andr6- 
Louis  was  aware,  although  within  a  week  of  M.  des  Amis' 
death  a  sister  turned  up  from  Passy  to  claim  his  heritage. 
This  was  considerable,  for  the  master  had  prospered  and 
saved  money,  most  of  which  was  invested  in  the  Compagnie 
des  Eaux  and  the  National  Debt.  Andre-Louis  consigned 
her  to  the  lawyers,  and  saw  her  no  more. 

The  death  of  des  Amis  left  him  with  so  profound  a  sense 
of  loneliness  and  desolation  that  he  had  no  thought  or  care 
for  the  sudden  access  of  fortune  which  it  automatically  pro- 
cured him.  To  the  master's  sister  might  fall  such  wealth  as 
he  had  amassed,  but  Andr6-Louis  succeeded  to  the  mine 
itself  from  which  that  wealth  had  been  extracted,  the  fenc- 
ing-school in  which  by  now  he  was  himself  so  well  established 
as  an  instructor  that  its  numerous  pupils  looked  to  him  to 
carry  it  forward  successfully  as  its  chief.  And  never  was  there 
a  season  in  which  fencing-academies  knew  such  prosperity  as 
in  these  troubled  days,  when  every  man  was  sharpening  his 
sword  and  schooling  himself  in  the  uses  of  it. 

It  was  not  until  a  couple  of  weeks  later  that  Andr6-Louis 


President  Le  Chapelier  245 

realized  what  had  really  happened  to  him,  and  he  found  him- 
self at  the  same  time  an  exhausted  man,  for  during  that 
fortnight  he  had  been  doing  the  work  of  two.  If  he  had  not 
hit  upon  the  happy  expedient  of  pairing-off  his  more  ad- 
vanced pupils  to  fence  with  each  other,  himself  standing  by 
to  criticize,  correct  and  otherwise  instruct,  he  must  have 
found  the  task  utterly  beyond  his  strength.  Even  so,  it  was 
necessary  for  him  to  fence  some  six  hours  daily,  and  every 
day  he  brought  arrears  of  lassitude  from  yesterday  until 
he  was  in  danger  of  succumbing  under  the  increasing  burden 
of  fatigue.  In  the  end  he  took  an  assistant  to  deal  with 
beginners,  who  gave  the  hardest  work.  He  found  him  readily 
enough  by  good  fortune  in  one  of  his  own  pupils  named 
Le  Due.  As  the  summer  advanced,  and  the  concourse  of 
pupils  steadily  increased,  it  became  necessary  for  him  to  take 
yet  another  assistant  —  an  able  young  instructor  named 
Galoche  —  and  another  room  on  the  floor  above. 

They  were  strenuous  days  for  Andre-Louis,  more  strenu- 
ous than  he  had  ever  known,  even  when  he  had  been  at 
work  to  build  up  the  Binet  Company;  but  it  follows  that 
they  were  days  of  extraordinary  prosperity.  He  comments 
regretfully  upon  the  fact  that  Bertrand  des  Amis  should 
have  died  by  ill-chance  on  the  very  eve  of  so  profitable  a 
vogue  of  sword-play. 

The  arms  of  the  Academic  du  Roi,  to  which  Andr6-Louis 
had  no  title,  still  continued  to  be  displayed  outside  his  door. 
He  had  overcome  the  difficulty  in  a  manner  worthy  of 
Scaramouche.  He  left  the  escutcheon  and  the  legend 
"Academic  de  Bertrand  des  Amis,  Maitre  en  fait  d'Armes 
des  Acad6mies  du  Roi,"  appending  to  it  the  further  legend: 
"Conducted  by  Andre  Louis." 

With  little  time  now  in  which  to  go  abroad  it  was  from 
his  pupils  and  the  newspapers  —  of  which  a  flood  had  risen 
in  Paris  with  the  establishment  of  the  freedom  of  the  Press 
—  that  he  learnt  of  the  revolutionary  processes  around  him, 
following  upon,  as  a  measure  of  anticlimax,  the  fall  of  the 
Bastille.  That  had  happened  whilst  M.  des  Amis  lay  dead, 


246  The  Sword 


on  the  day  before  they  buried  him,  and  was  indeed  the  chief 
reason  of  the  delay  in  his  burial.  It  was  an  event  that  had 
its  inspiration  in  that  ill-considered  charge  of  Prince  Lam- 
besc  in  which  the  fencing-master  had  been  killed. 

The  outraged  people  had  besieged  the  electors  in  the 
H6tel  de  Ville,  demanding  arms  with  which  to  defend  their 
lives  from  these  foreign  murderers  hired  by  despotism. 
And  in  the  end  the  electors  had  consented  to  give  them 
arms,  or,  rather  —  for  arms  it  had  none  to  give  —  to  permit 
them  to  arm  themselves.  Also  it  had  given  them  a  cockade, 
of  red  and  blue,  the  colours  of  Paris.  Because  these  colours 
were  also  those  of  the  liveries., of  the  Duke  of  Orleans,  white 
was  added  to  them  —  the  white  of  the  ancient  standard 
of  France  —  and  thus  was  the  tricolour  born.  Further,  a 
permanent  committee  of  electors  was  appointed  to  watch 
over  public  order. 

Thus  empowered  the  people  went  to  work  with  such 
good  effect  that  within  thirty-six  hours  sixty  thousand  pikes 
had  been  forged.  At  nine  o'clock  on  Tuesday  morning 
thirty  thousand  men  were  before  the  Invalides.  By  eleven 
o'clock  they  had  ravished  it  of  its  store  of  arms  amounting 
to  some  thirty  thousand  muskets,  whilst  others  had  seized 
the  Arsenal  and  possessed  themselves  of  powder. 

Thus  they  prepared  to  resist  the  attack  that  from  seven 
points  was  to  be  launched  that  evening  upon  the  city.  But 
Paris  did  not  wait  for  the  attack.  It  took  the  initiative. 
Mad  with  enthusiasm  it  conceived  the  insane  project  of 
taking  that  terrible  menacing  fortress,  the  Bastille,  and, 
what  is  more,  it  succeeded,  as  you  know,  before  five  o'clock 
that  night,  aided  in  the  enterprise  by  the  French  Guards 
with  cannon. 

The  news  of  it,  borne  to  Versailles  by  Lambesc  in  flight 
with  his  dragoons  before  the  vast  armed  force  that  had 
sprouted  from  the  paving-stones  of  Paris,  gave  the  Court 
pause.  The  people  were  in  possession  of  the  guns  captured 
from  the  Bastille.  They  were  erecting  barricades  in  the 
streets,  and  mounting  these  guns  upon  them.  The  attack 


President  Le  Chapelier  247 

had  been  too  long  delayed.  It  must  be  abandoned  since  now 
it  could  lead  only  to  fruitless  slaughter  that  must  further 
shake  the  already  sorely  shaken  prestige  of  Royalty. 

And  so  the  Court,  growing  momentarily  wise  again  under 
the  spur  of  fear,  preferred  to  temporize.   Necker  should  be 
brought  back  yet  once  again,  the  three  orders  should  sit 
united  as  the  National  Assembly  demanded.    It  was  the 
completes!  surrender  of  force  to  force,  the  only  argument. 
The  King  went  alone  to  inform  the  National  Assembly  of 
that  eleventh-hour  resolve,  to  the  great  comfort  of  its  mem- 
bers, who  viewed  with  pain  and  alarm  the  dreadful  state 
of  things  in  Paris.    "No  force  but  the  force  of  reason  and 
argument"  was  their  watchword,  and  it  was  so  to  continue 
for  two  years  yet,  with  a  patience  and  fortitude  in  the  face 
of  ceaseless  provocation  to  which  insufficient  justice  has 
been  done. 

As  the  King  was  leaving  the  Assembly,  a  woman,  em- 
bracing his  knees,  gave  tongue  to  what  might  well  be  the 
question  of  all  France : 

"Ah,  sire,  are  you  really  sincere?  Are  you  sure  they  will 
not  make  you  change  your  mind?" 

Yet  no  such  question  was  asked  when  a  couple  of  days 
later  the  King,  alone  and  unguarded  save  by  the  repre- 
sentatives of  the  Nation,  came  to  Paris  to  complete  the 
peacemaking,  the  surrender  of  Privilege.  The  Court  was 
illed  with  terror  by  the  adventure.  Were  they  not  the 
"enemy,"  these  mutinous  Parisians?  And  should  a  King 
go  thus  among  his  enemies?  If  he  shared  some  of  that  fear, 
as  the  gloom  of  him  might  lead  us  to  suppose,  he  must  have 
found  it  idle.  What  if  two  hundred  thousand  men  under 
arms  men  without  uniforms  and  with  the  most  extra- 
ordinary motley  of  weapons  ever  seen  —  awaited  him? 
They  awaited  him  as  a  guard  of  honour. 

Mayor  Bailly  at  the  barrier  presented  him  with  the  keys 
of  the  city.  "These  are  the  same  keys  that  were  presented 
to  Henri  IV.  He  had  reconquered  his  people.  Now  the 
people  have  reconquered  their  King." 


248  The  Sword 


At  the  H6tel  de  Ville  Mayor  Bailly  offered  him  the  new 
cockade,  the  tricoloured  symbol  of  constitutional  France, 
and  when  he  had  given  his  royal  confirmation  to  the  for- 
mation of  the  Garde  Bourgeoise  and  to  the  appointments  of 
Bailly  and  Lafayette,  he  departed  again  for  Versailles  amid 
the  shouts  of  "Vive  le  Roi!"  from  his  loyal  people. 

And  now  you  see  Privilege  —  before  the  cannon's  mouth, 
as  it  were  —  submitting  at  last,  where  had  they  submitted 
sooner  they  might  have  saved  oceans  of  blood  —  chiefly 
their  own.  They  come,  nobles  and  clergy,  to  join  the 
National  Assembly,  to  labour  with  it  upon  this  constitution 
that  is  to  regenerate  France.  But  the  reunion  is  a  mockery 
— as  much  a  mockery  as  that  of  the  Archbishop  of  Paris  sing- 
ing the  Te  Deum  for  the  fall  of  the  Bastille  —  most  gro- 
tesque and  incredible  of  all  these  grotesque  and  incredible 
events.  All  that  has  happened  to  the  National  Assembly 
is  that  it  has  introduced  five  or  six  hundred  enemies  to 
hamper  and  hinder  its  deliberations. 

But  all  this  is  an  oft-told  tale,  to  be  read  in  detail  else- 
where. I  give  you  here  just  so  much  of  it  as  I  have  found  in 
Andr£-Louis'  own  writings,  almost  in  his  own  words,  re- 
flecting the  changes  that  were  operated  in  his  mind.  Silent 
now,  he  came  fully  to  believe  in  those  things  in  which  he  had 
not  believed  when  earlier  he  had  preached  them. 

Meanwhile  together  with  the  change  in  his  fortune  had 
come  a  change  in  his  position  towards  the  law,  a  change 
brought  about  by  the  other  changes  wrought  around  him. 
No  longer  need  he  hide  himself.  Who  in  these  days  would 
prefer  against  him  the  grotesque  charge  of  sedition  for  what 
he  had  done  in  Brittany?  What  court  would  dare  to  send 
him  to  the  gallows  for  having  said  in  advance  what  all 
France  was  saying  now?  As  for  that  other  possible  charge 
of  murder,  who  should  concern  himself  with  the  death  of 
the  miserable  Binet  killed  by  him  —  if,  indeed,  he  had 
killed  him,  as  he  hoped  —  in  self-defence. 

And  so  one  fine  day  in  early  August,  Andr6-Louis  gave 
himself  a  holiday  from  the  academy,  which  was  now  work- 


President  Le  Chapelier  249 

ing  smoothly  under  his  assistants,  hired  a  chaise  and  drove 
out  to  Versailles  to  the  Cafe  d'Amaury,  which  he  knew  for 
the  meeting-place  of  the  Club  Breton,  the  seed  from  which 
was  to  spring  that  Society  of  the  Friends  of  the  Constitution 
better  known  as  the  Jacobins.  He  went  to  seek  Le  Chape- 
lier, who  had  been  one  of  the  founders  of  the  club,  a  man  of 
great  prominence  now,  president  of  the  Assembly  in  this 
important  season  when  it  was  deliberating  upon  the  Decla- 
ration of  the  Rights  of  Man. 

Le  Chapelier's  importance  was  reflected  in  the  sudden 
servility  of  the  shirt-sleeved,  white-aproned  waiter  of  whom 
Andr£-Louis  inquired  for  the  representative. 

M.  Le  Chapelier  was  above-stairs  with  friends.  The 
waiter  desired  to  serve  the  gentleman,  but  hesitated  to 
break  in  upon  the  assembly  in  which  M.  le  D£put£  found 
himself. 

Andr6-Louis  gave  him  a  piece  of  silver  to  encourage  him 
to  make  the  attempt.  Then  he  sat  down  at  a  marble-topped 
table  by  the  window  looking  out  over  the  wide  tree-en- 
circled square.  There,  in  that  common-room  of  the  caf£, 
deserted  at  this  hour  of  mid-afternoon,  the  great  man  came 
to  him.  Less  than  a  year  ago  he  had  yielded  precedence  to 
Andr6-Louis  in  a  matter  of  delicate  leadership;  to-day  he 
stood  on  the  heights,  one  of  the  great  leaders  of  the  Nation 
in  travail,  and  Andre-Louis  was  deep  down  in  the  shadows 
of  the  general  mass. 

The  thought  was  in  the  minds  of  both  as  they  scanned 
each  other,  each  noting  in  the  other  the  marked  change 
that  a  few  months  had  wrought.  In  Le  Chapelier,  Andr£- 
Louis  observed  certain  heightened  refinements  of  dress  that 
went  with  certain  subtler  refinements  of  countenance.  He 
was  thinner  than  of  old,  his  face  was  pale  and  there  was  a 
weariness  in  the  eyes  that  considered  his  visitor  through  a 
gold-rimmed  spy-glass.  In  Andre-Louis  those  jaded  but 
quick-moving  eyes  of  the  Breton  deputy  noted  changes  even 
more  marked.  The  almost  constant  swordmanship  of  these 
last  months  had  given  Andr6-Louis  a  grace  of  movement,  a 


250  The  Sword 


poise,  and  a  curious,  indefinable  air  of  dignity,  of  command. 
He  seemed  taller  by  virtue  of  this,  and  he  was  dressed  with 
an  elegance  which  if  quiet  was  none  the  less  rich.  He  wore  a 
small  silver-hilted  sword,  and  wore  it  as  if  used  to  it,  and  his 
black  hair  that  Le  Chapelier  had  never  seen  other  than 
fluttering  lank  about  his  bony  cheeks  was  glossy  now  and 
gathered  into  a  club.  Almost  he  had  the  air  of  a  petit- 
maitre. 

In  both,  however,  the  changes  were  purely  superficial, 
as  each  was  soon  to  reveal  to  the  other.  Le  Chapelier  was 
ever  the  same  direct  and  downright  Breton,  abrupt  of 
manner  and  of  speech.  He  stood  smiling  a  moment  in 
mingled  surprise  and  pleasure;  then  opened  wide  his  arms. 
They  embraced  under  the  awe-stricken  gaze  of  the  waiter, 
who  at  once  effaced  himself. 
„  "Andr6-Louis,  my  friend!  Whence  do  you  drop?" 

"We  drop  from  above.  I  come  from  below  to  survey  at 
close  quarters  one  who  is  on  the  heights." 

"On  the  heights!  But  that  you  willed  it  so,  it  is  yourself 
might  now  be  standing  in  my  place." 

"I  have  a  poor  head  for  heights,  and  I  find  the  atmos- 
phere too  rarefied.  Indeed,  you  look  none  too  well  on  it 
yourself,  Isaac.  You  are  pale." 

"The  Assembly  was  in  session  all  last  night.  That  is  all. 
These  damned  Privileged  multiply  our  difficulties.  They 
will  do  so  until  we  decree  their  abolition." 

They  sat  down.  "Abolition!  You  contemplate  so  much? 
Not  that  you  surprise  me.  You  have  always  been  an  ex- 
tremist." 

"I  contemplate  it  that  I  may  save  them.  I  seek  to 
abolish  them  officially,  so  as  to  save  them  from  abolition  of 
another  kind  at  the  hands  of  a  people  they  exasperate." 

"I  see.  And  the  King?" 

"The  King  is  the  incarnation  of  the  Nation.  We  shall 
deliver  him  together  with  the  Nation  from  the  bondage  of 
Privilege.  Our  constitution  will  accomplish  it.  You  agree?" 

Andrd-Louis  shrugged.  "  Does  it  matter?  I  am  a  dreamer 


President  Le  Chapelier  251 

in  politics,  not  a  man  of  action.  Until  lately  I  have  been 
very  moderate;  more  moderate  than  you  think.  But  now 
almost  I  am  a  republican.  I  have  been  watching,  and  I 
have  perceived  that  this  King  is  —  just  nothing,  a  puppet 
who  dances  according  to  the  hand  that  pulls  the  string." 

"This  King,  you  say?  What  other  king  is  possible?  You 
are  surely  not  of  those  who  weave  dreams  about  Orleans? 
He  has  a  sort  of  party,  a  following  largely  recruited  by  the 
popular  hatred  of  the  Queen  and  the  known  fact  that  she 
hates  him.  There  are  some  who  have  thought  of  making 
him  regent,  some  even  more;  Robespierre  is  of  the  number." 

"Who?"  asked  Andre-Louis,  to  whom  the  name  was 
unknown. 

"Robespierre  —  a  preposterous  little  lawyer  who  repre- 
sents Arras,  a  shabby,  clumsy,  timid  dullard,  who  will 
make  speeches  through  his  nose  to  which  nobody  listens  — 
an  ultra-royalist  whom  the  royalists  and  the  Orl6anists 
are  using  for  their  own  ends.  He  has  pertinacity,  and  he 
insists  upon  being  heard.  He  may  be  listened  to  some  day. 
But  that  he,  or  the  others,  will  ever  make  anything  of 
Orleans  .  .  .  pish!  Orl6ans  himself  may  desire  it,  but  .  .  . 
the  man  is  a  eunuch  in  crime;  he  would,  but  he  can't.  The 
phrase  is  Mirabeau's." 

He  broke  off  to  demand  Andre-Louis'  news  of  himself. 

"You  did  not  treat  me  as  a  friend  when  you  wrote  to 
me,"  he  complained.  "You  gave  me  no  clue  to  your  where- 
abouts; you  represented  yourself  as  on  the  verge  of  desti- 
tution and  withheld  from  me  the  means  to  come  to  your 
assistance.  I  have  been  troubled  in  mind  about  you, 
Andre.  Yet  to  judge  by  your  appearance  I  might  have 
spared  myself  that.  You  seem  prosperous,  assured.  Tell 
me  of  it." 

Andre-Louis  told  him  frankly  all  that  there  was  to  tell. 

"Do  you  know  that  you  are  an  amazement  to  me?"  said 
the  deputy.  "From  the  robe  to  the  buskin,  and  now  from 
the  buskin  to  the  sword!  What  will  be  the  end  of  you,  I 
wonder?" 


252  The  Sword 


"The  gallows,  probably." 

"Pish!  Be  serious.  Why  not  the  toga  of  the  senator  in 
senatorial  France?  It  might  be  yours  now  if  you  had  willed 
it  so." 

"The  surest  way  to  the  gallows  of  all,"  laughed  Andre- 
Louis. 

At  the  moment  Le  Chapelier  manifested  impatience.  I 
wonder  did  the  phrase  cross  his  mind  that  day  four  years 
later  when  himself  he  rode  in  the  death-cart  to  the  Greve. 

"We  are  sixty-six  Breton  deputies  in  the  Assembly. 
Should  a  vacancy  occur,  will  you  act  as  suppleant?  A  word 
from  me  together  with  the  influence  of  your  name  in  Rennes 
and  Nantes,  and  the  thing  is  done." 

Andr6-Louis  laughed  outright.  "Do  you  know,  Isaac, 
that  I  never  meet  you  but  you  seek  to  thrust  me  into 
politics?" 

"Because  you  have  a  gift  for  politics.  You  were  born 
for  politics." 

"Ah,  yes  —  Scaramouche  in  real  life.  I've  played  it  on 
the  stage.  Let  that  suffice.  Tell  me,  Isaac,  what  news  of 
my  old  friend,  La  Tour  d'Azyr?" 

"He  is  here  in  Versailles,  damn  him  —  a  thorn  in  the 
flesh  of  the  Assembly.  They've  burnt  his  chateau  at  La 
Tour  d'Azyr.  Unfortunately  he  wasn't  in  it  at  the  time. 
The  flames  have  n't  even  singed  his  insolence.  He  dreams 
that  when  this  philosophic  aberration  is  at  an  end,  there 
will  be  serfs  to  rebuild  it  for  him." 

"So  there  has  been  trouble  in  Brittany?"  Andr6-Louis 
had  become  suddenly  grave,  his  thoughts  swinging  to 
Gavrillac. 

"An  abundance  of  it,  and  elsewhere  too.  Can  you  won- 
der? These  delays  at  such  a  time,  with  famine  in  the  land? 
Chateaux  have  been  going  up  in  smoke  during  the  last 
fortnight.  The  peasants  took  their  cue  from  the  Parisians, 
and  treated  every  castle  as  a  Bastille.  Order  is  being  re- 
stored, there  as  here,  and  they  are  quieter  now." 

"What  of  Gavrillac?  Do  you  know?" 


President  Le  Chapelier  253 

"I  believe  all  to  be  well.  M.  de  Kercadiou  was  not  a 
Marquis  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr.  He  was  in  sympathy  with  his 
people.  It  is  not  likely  that  they  would  injure  Gavrillac. 
But  don't  you  correspond  with  your  godfather?" 

"In  the  circumstances  —  no.  What  you  tell  me  would 
make  it  now  more  difficult  than  ever,  for  he  must  account 
me  one  of  those  who  helped  to  light  the  torch  that  has  set 
fire  to  so  much  belonging  to  his  class.  Ascertain  for  me 
that  all  is  well,  and  let  me  know." 

"I  will,  at  once." 

At  parting,  when  Andr£-Louis  was  on  the  point  of  step- 
ping into  his  cabriolet  to  return  to  Paris,  he  sought  infor- 
mation on  another  matter. 

"Do  you  happen  to  know  if  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr  has 
married?"  he  asked. 

"  I  don't;  which  really  means  that  he  has  n't.  One  would 
have  heard  of  it  in  the  case  of  that  exalted  Privileged." 

"To  be  sure."  Andr£-Louis  spoke  indifferently.  "Au 
revoir,  Isaac!  You  '11  come  and  see  me  —  13  Rue  du  Hasard. 
Come  soon." 

"As  soon  and  as  often  as  my  duties  will  allow.  They  keep 
me  chained  here  at  present." 

"Poor  slave  of  duty  with  your  gospel  of  liberty!" 

"True!  And  because  of  that  I  will  come.  I  have  a  duty 
to  Brittany:  to  make  Omnes  Omnibus  one  of  her  repre- 
sentatives in  the  National  Assembly." 

"That  is  a  duty  you  will  oblige  me  by  neglecting," 
laughed  Andr£-Louis,  and  drove  away. 


CHAPTER  IV 
AT  MEUDON 

LATER  in  the  week  he  received  a  visit  from  Le  Chapelier 
just  before  noon. 

"I  have  news  for  you,  Andr6.  Your  godfather  is  at 
Meudon.  He  arrived  there  two  days  ago.  Had  you  heard?" 

"But  no.  How  should  I  hear?  Why  is  he  at  Meudon?" 
He  was  conscious  of  a  faint  excitement,  which  he  could 
hardly  have  explained. 

"I  don't  know.  There  have  been  fresh  disturbances  in 
Brittany.  It  may  be  due  to  that." 

"And  so  he  has  come  for  shelter  to  his  brother?"  asked 
Andr6-Louis. 

"To  his  brother's  house,  yes;  but  not  to  his  brother. 
Where  do  you  live  at  all,  Andre?  Do  you  never  hear  any 
of  the  news?  fitienne  de  Gavrillac  emigrated  years  ago. 
He  was  of  the  household  of  M.  d'Artois,  and  he  crossed  the 
frontier  with  him.  By  now,  no  doubt,  he  is  in  Germany 
with  him,  conspiring  against  France.  For  that  is  what  the 
6migr£s  are  doing.  That  Austrian  woman  at  the  Tuileries 
will  end  by  destroying  the  monarchy." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Andre-Louis  impatiently.  Politics  in- 
terested him  not  at  all  this  morning.  "But  about  Ga- 
vrillac?" 

"Why,  have  n't  I  told  you  that  Gavrillac  is  at  Meudon, 
installed  in  the  house  his  brother  has  left?  Dieu  de  Dieu! 
Don't  I  speak  French  or  don't  you  understand  the  language? 
I  believe  that  Rabouillet,  his  intendant,  is  in  charge  of 
Gavrillac.  I  have  brought  you  the  news  the  moment  I 
received  it.  I  thought  you  would  probably  wish  to  go  out 
to  Meudon." 

"Of  course.  I  will  go  at  once  —  that  is,  as  soon  as  I  can. 
I  can't  to-day,  nor  yet  to-morrow.  I  am  too  busy  here." 


At  Meudon  255 


He  waved  a  hand  towards  the  inner  room,  whence  pro- 
ceeded the  click-click  of  blades,  the  quick  moving  of  feet, 
and  the  voice  of  the  instructor,  Le  Due. 

"Well,  well,  that  is  your  own  affair.  You  are  busy.  I 
leave  you  now.  Let  us  dine  this  evening  at  the  Cafe  de  Foy. 
Kersain  will  be  of  the  party." 

"A  moment!"  Andre-Louis'  voice  arrested  him  on  the 
threshold.  "Is  Mile,  de  Kercadiou  with  her  uncle?" 

"How  the  devil  should  I  know?  Go  and  find  out." 

He  was  gone,  and  Andre-Louis  stood  there  a  moment 
deep  in  thought.  Then  he  turned  and  went  back  to  resume 
with  his  pupil,  the  Vicomte  de  Villeniort,  the  interrupted 
exposition  of  the  demi-contre  of  Danet,  illustrating  with  a 
small-sword  the  advantages  to  be  derived  from  its  adoption. 

Thereafter  he  fenced  with  the  Vicomte,  who  was  perhaps 
the  ablest  of  his  pupils  at  the  time,  and  all  the  while  his 
thoughts  were  on  the  heights  of  Meudon,  his  mind  casting 
up  the  lessons  he  had  to  give  that  afternoon  and  on  the 
morrow,  and  wondering  which  of  these  he  might  postpone 
without  deranging  the  academy.  When  having  touched 
the  Vicomte  three  times  in  succession,  he  paused  and 
wrenched  himself  back  to  the  present,  it  was  to  marvel  at 
the  precision  to  be  gained  by  purely  mechanical  action. 
Without  bestowing  a  thought  upon  what  he  was  doing,  his 
wrist  and  arm  and  knees  had  automatically  performed  their 
work,  like  the  accurate  fighting  engine  into  which  constant 
practice  for  a  year  and  more  had  combined  them. 

Not  until  Sunday  was  Andre-Louis  able  to  satisfy  a  wish 
which  the  impatience  of  the  intervening  days  had  converted 
into  a  yearning.  Dressed  with  more  than  ordinary  care, 
his  head  elegantly  coiffed  —  by  one  of  those  hairdressers 
to  the  nobility  of  whom  so  many  were  being  thrown  out 
of  employment  by  the  stream  of  emigration  which  was 
now  flowing  freely  —  Andre-Louis  mounted  his  hired  car- 
riage, and  drove  out  to  Meudon. 

The  house  of  the  younger  Kercadiou  no  more  resembled 
that  of  the  head  of  the  family  than  did  his  person.  A  man 


256  The  Sword 


of  the  Court,  where  his  brother  was  essentially  a  man  of  the 
soil,  an  officer  of  the  household  of  M.  le  Comte  d'Artois,  he 
had  built  for  himself  and  his  family  an  imposing  villa  on 
the  heights  of  Meudon  in  a  miniature  park,  conveniently 
situated  for  him  midway  between  Versailles  and  Paris,  and 
easily  accessible  from  either.  M.  d'Artois  —  the  royal 
tennis-player  —  had  been  amongst  the  very  first  to  emi- 
grate. Together  with  the  Condes,  the  Contis,  the  Polignacs, 
and  others  of  the  Queen's  intimate  council,  old  Marshal 
de  Broglie  and  the  Prince  de  Lambesc,  who  realized  that 
their  very  names  had  become  odious  to  the  people,  he  had 
quitted  France  immediately  after  the  fall  of  the  Bastille. 
He  had  gone  to  play  tennis  beyond  the  frontier  —  and  there 
consummate  the  work  of  ruining  the  French  monarchy  upon 
which  he  and  those  others  had  been  engaged  in  France. 
With  him,  amongst  several  members  of  his  household  went 
£tienne  de  Kercadiou,  and  with  fitienne  de  Kercadiou  went 
his  family,  a  wife  and  four  children.  Thus  it  was  that  the 
Seigneur  de  Gavrillac,  glad  to  escape  from  a  province  so 
peculiarly  disturbed  as  that  of  Brittany  —  where  the  nobles 
had  shown  themselves  the  most  intransigent  of  all  France 
—  had  come  to  occupy  in  his  brother's  absence  the  courtier's 
handsome  villa  at  Meudon. 

That  he  was  quite  happy  there  is  not  to  be  supposed.  A 
man  of  his  almost  Spartan  habits,  accustomed  to  plain  fare 
and  self-help,  was  a  little  uneasy  in  this  sybaritic  abode, 
with  its  soft  carpets,  profusion  of  gilding,  and  battalion  of 
sleek,  silent-footed  servants  —  for  Kercadiou  the  younger 
had  left  his  entire  household  behind.  Time,  which  at 
Gavrillac  he  had  kept  so  fully  employed  in  agrarian  con- 
cerns, here  hung  heavily  upon  his  hands.  In  self-defence  he 
slept  a  great  deal,  and  but  for  Aline,  who  made  no  attempt 
to  conceal  her  delight  at  this  proximity  to  Paris  and  the 
heart  of  things,  it  is  possible  that  he  would  have  beat  a 
retreat  almost  at  once  from  surroundings  that  sorted  so  ill 
with  his  habits.  Later  on,  perhaps,  he  would  accustom  him- 
self and  grow  resigned  to  this  luxurious  inactivity.  In  the 


At  Meudon  257 


meantime  the  novelty  of  it  fretted  him,  and  it  was  into  the 
presence  of  a  peevish  and  rather  somnolent  M.  de  Ker- 
cadiou  that  Andre-Louis  was  ushered  in  the  early  hours  of 
the  afternoon  of  that  Sunday  in  June.  He  was  unannounced, 
as  had  ever  been  the  custom  at  Gavrillac.  This  because 
Benolt,  M.  de  Kercadiou's  old  seneschal,  had  accompanied 
his  seigneur  upon  this  soft  adventure,  and  was  installed  — 
to  the  ceaseless  and  but  half-concealed  hilarity  of  the  im- 
pertinent valetaille  that  M.  Etienne  had  left  —  as  his  maltre 
d'hotel  here  at  Meudon. 

B£noit  had  welcomed  M.  Andr£  with  incoherencies  of  de- 
light ;  almost  had  he  gambolled  about  him  like  some  faithful 
dog,  whilst  conducting  him  to  the  salon  and  the  presence  of 
the  Lord  of  Gavrillac,  who  would  —  in  the  words  of  B£noit 
—  be  ravished  to  see  M.  Andr6  again. 

"Monseigneur!  Monseigneur ! "  he  cried  in  a  quavering 
voice,  entering  a  pace  or  two  in  advance  of  the  visitor.  "  It  is 
M.  Andr6  .  .  .  M.  Andr6,  your  godson,  who  comes  to  kiss 
your  hand.  He  is  here  .  .  .  and  so  fine  that  you  would  hardly 
know  him.  Here  he  is,  monseigneur!  Is  he  not  beautiful?" 

And  the  old  servant  rubbed  his  hands  in  conviction  of  the 
delight  that  he  believed  he  was  conveying  to  his  master. 

Andr6-Louis  crossed  the  threshold  of  that  great  room, 
soft-carpeted  to  the  foot,  dazzling  to  the  eye.  It  was  im- 
mensely lofty,  and  its  festooned  ceiling  was  carried  on 
fluted  pillars  with  gilded  capitals.  The  door  by  which  he  en- 
tered, and  the  windows  that  opened  upon  the  garden,  were  of 
an  enormous  height  —  almost,  indeed,  the  full  height  of  the 
room  itself.  It  was  a  room  overwhelmingly  gilded,  with  an 
abundance  of  ormolu  encrustations  on  the  furniture,  in  which 
it  nowise  differed  from  what  was  customary  in  the  dwellings 
of  people  of  birth  and  wealth.  Never,  indeed,  was  there  a 
time  in  which  so  much  gold  was  employed  decoratively  as  in 
this  age  when  coined  gold  was  almost  unprocurable,  and 
paper  money  had  been  put  into  circulation  to  supply  the 
lack.  It  was  a  saying  of  Andre-Louis'  that  if  these  people 
could  only  have  been  induced  to  put  the  paper  on  their 


258  The  Sword 


walls  and  the  gold  into  their  pockets,  the  finances  of  the 
kingdom  might  soon  have  been  in  better  case. 

The  Seigneur  —  furbished  and  beruffled  to  harmonize 
with  his  surroundings  —  had  risen,  startled  by  this  exuber- 
ant invasion  on  the  part  of  Benoit,  who  had  been  almost  as 
forlorn  as  himself  since  their  coming  to  Meudon. 

"What  is  it?  Eh?"  His  pale,  short-sighted  eyes  peered 
at  the  visitor.  "Andre ! "  said  he,  between  surprise  and  stern- 
ness, and  the  colour  deepened  in  his  great  pink  face. 

Benoit,  with  his  back  to  his  master,  deliberately  winked 
and  grinned  at  Andre-Louis  to  encourage  him  not  to  be  put 
off  by  any  apparent  hostility  on  the  part  of  his  godfather. 
That  done,  the  intelligent  old  fellow  discreetly  effaced  him- 
self. 

"What  do  you  want  here?"  growled  M.  de  Kercadiou. 

"No  more  than  to  kiss  your  hand,  as  Benoit  has  told  you, 
monsieur  my  godfather,"  said  Andre-Louis  submissively, 
bowing  his  sleek  black  head. 

"You  have  contrived  without  kissing  it  for  two  years." 

"Do  not,  monsieur,  reproach  me  with  my  misfortune." 

The  little  man  stood  very  stiffly  erect,  his  disproportion- 
ately large  head  thrown  back,  his  pale  prominent  eyes  very 
stern. 

"Did  you  think  to  make  your  outrageous  offence  any 
better  by  vanishing  in  that  heartless  manner,  by  leaving  us 
without  knowledge  of  whether  you  were  alive  or  dead?" 

"At  first  it  was  dangerous  —  dangerous  to  my  life  —  to 
disclose  my  whereabouts.  Then  for  a  time  I  was  in  need,  al- 
most destitute,  and  my  pride  forbade  me,  after  what  I  had 
done  and  the  view  you  must  take  of  it,  to  appeal  to  you  for 
help.  Later  ..." 

"Destitute?"  The  Seigneur  interrupted.  For  a  moment 
his  lip  trembled.  Then  he  steadied  himself,  and  the  frown 
deepened  as  he  surveyed  this  very  changed  and  elegant  god- 
son of  his,  noted  the  quiet  richness  of  his  apparel,  the  paste 
buckles  and  red  heels  to  his  shoes,  the  sword  hilted  in 
mother-o'-pearl  and  silver,  and  the  carefully  dressed  hair 


At  Meudon  259 


that  he  had  always  seen  hanging  in  wisps  about  his  face. 
"At  least  you  do  not  look  destitute  now,"  he  sneered. 

"I  am  not.  I  have  prospered  since.  In  that,  monsieur,  I 
differ  from  the  ordinary  prodigal,  who  returns  only  when  he 
needs  assistance.  I  return  solely  because  I  love  you,  mon- 
sieur —  to  tell  you  so.  I  have  come  at  the  very  first  moment 
after  hearing  of  your  presence  here."  He  advanced.  "Mon- 
sieur my  godfather!"  he  said,  and  held  out  his  hand. 

But  M.  de  Kercadiou  remained  unbending,  wrapped  in 
his  cold  dignity  and  resentment. 

"Whatever  tribulations  you  may  have  suffered  or  con- 
sider that  you  may  have  suffered,  they  are  far  less  than  your 
disgraceful  conduct  deserved,  and  I  observe  that  they  have 
nothing  abated  your  impudence.  You  think  that  you  have 
but  to  come  here  and  say,  '  Monsieur  my  godfather ! '  and 
everything  is  to  be  forgiven  and  forgotten.  That  is  your 
error.  You  have  committed  too  great  a  wrong;  you  have 
offended  against  everything  by  which  I  hold,  and  against 
myself  personally,  by  your  betrayal  of  my  trust  in  you.  You 
are  one  of  those  unspeakable  scoundrels  who  are  responsible 
for  this  revolution." 

"Alas,  monsieur,  I  see  that  you  share  the  common  delu- 
sion. These  unspeakable  scoundrels  but  demanded  a  con- 
stitution, as  was  promised  them  from  the  throne.  They  were 
not  to  know  that  the  promise  was  insincere,  or  that  its  ful- 
filment would  be  baulked  by  the  privileged  orders.  The 
men  who  have  precipitated  this  revolution,  monsieur,  are 
the  nobles  and  the  prelates." 

"You  dare  —  and  at  such  a  time  as  this  —  stand  there 
and  tell  me  such  abominable  lies !  You  dare  to  say  that  the 
nobles  have  made  the  revolution,  when  scores  of  them,  fol- 
lowing the  example  of  M.  le  Due  d'Aiguillon,  have  flung 
their  privileges,  even  their  title-deeds,  into  the  lap  of  the 
people!  Or  perhaps  you  deny  it?" 

"Oh,  no.  Having  wantonly  set  fire  to  their  house,  they 
now  try  to  put  it  out  by  throwing  water  on  it ;  and  where  they 
fail  they  put  the  entire  blame  on  the  flames." 


26o  The  Sword 


"I  see  that  you  have  come  here  to  talk  politics." 

"Far  from  it.  I  have  come,  if  possible,  to  explain  myself. 
To  understand  is  always  to  forgive.  That  is  a  great  saying  of 
Montaigne's.  If  I  could  make  you  understand  ..." 

"You  can't.  You'll  never  make  me  understand  how  you 
came  to  render  yourself  so  odiously  notorious  in  Brittany." 

"Ah,  not  odiously,  monsieur!" 

"Certainly,  odiously  —  among  those  that  matter.    It  is 
said  even  that  you  were  Omnes  Omnibus,  though  that  I  can- 
not, will  not  believe." 
.     "Yet  it  is  true." 

M.  de  Kercadiou  choked.  "And  you  confess  it?  You  dare 
to  confess  it?" 

"What  a  man  dares  to  do,  he  should  dare  to  confess  — 
unless  he  is  a  coward." 

"Oh,  and  to  be  sure  you  were  very  brave,  running  away 
each  time  after  you  had  done  the  mischief,  turning  comedian 
to  hide  yourself,  doing  more  mischief  as  a  comedian,  pro- 
voking a  riot  in  Nantes,  and  then  running  away  again,  to 
become  God  knows  what  —  something  dishonest  by  the 
affluent  look  of  you.  My  God,  man,  I  tell  you  that  in  these 
past  two  years  I  have  hoped  that  you  were  dead,  and  you 
profoundly  disappoint  me  that  you  are  not!"  He  beat  his 
hands  together,  and  raised  his  shrill  voice  to  call  — ."  B£noit ! " 
He  strode  away  towards  the  fireplace,  scarlet  in  the  face, 
shaking  with  the  passion  into  which  he  had  worked  himself. 
"Dead,  I  might  have  forgiven  you,  as  one  who  had  paid  for 
his  evil,  and  his  folly.  Living,  I  never  can  forgive  you.  You 
have  gone  too  far.  God  alone  knows  where  it  will  end. 

"Benoit,  the  door.  M.  Andre-Louis  Moreau  to  the  door!" 

The  tone  argued  an  irrevocable  determination.  Pale  and 
self-contained,  but  with  a  queer  pain  at  his  heart,  Andr6- 
Louis  heard  that  dismissal,  saw  Benoit's  white,  scared  face 
and  shaking  hands  half-raised  as  if  he  were  about  to  expostu- 
late with  his  master.  And  then  another  voice,  a  crisp,  boyish 
voice,  cut  in. 

"Uncle!"  it  cried,  a  world  of  indignation  and  surprise  in 


At  Meudon  261 


its  pitch,  and  then:  "Andre!"  And  this  time  a  note  almost 
of  gladness,  certainly  of  welcome,  was  blended  with  the  sur- 
prise that  still  remained. 

Both  turned,  half  the  room  between  them  at  the  moment, 
and  beheld  Aline  in  one  of  the  long,  open  windows,  arrested 
there  in  the  act  of  entering  from  the  garden,  Aline  in  a  milk- 
maid bonnet  of  the  latest  mode,  though  without  any  of  the 
tricolour  embellishments  that  were  so  commonly  to  be  seen 
upon  them. 

The  thin  lips  of  Andre's  long  mouth  twisted  into  a  queer 
smile.  Into  his  mind  had  flashed  the  memory  of  their  last 
parting.  He  saw  himself  again,  standing  burning  with  in- 
dignation upon  the  pavement  of  Nantes,  looking  after  her 
carriage  as  it  receded  down  the  Avenue  de  Gigan. 

She  was  coming  towards  him  now  with  outstretched  hands, 
a  heightened  colour  in  her  cheeks,  a  smile  of  welcome  on  her 
lips.  He  bowed  low  and  kissed  her  hand  in  silence. 

Then  with  a  glance  and  a  gesture  she  dismissed  B6nolt,  and 
in  her  imperious  fashion  constituted  herself  Andre's  advocate 
against  that  harsh  dismissal  which  she  had  overheard. 

"Uncle,"  she  said,  leaving  Andr6  and  crossing  to  M.  de 
Kercadiou,  "you  make  me  ashamed  of  you!  To  allow  a  feel- 
ing of  peevishness  to  overwhelm  all  your  affection  for  Andr6 ! " 

"  I  have  no  affection  for  him.  I  had  once.  He  chose  to  ex- 
tinguish it.  He  can  go  to  the  devil ;  and  please  observe  that 
I  don't  permit  you  to  interfere." 

"But  if  he  confesses  that  he  has  done  wrong  ..." 

"He  confesses  nothing  of  the  kind.  He  comes  here  to 
argue  with  me  about  these  infernal  Rights  of  Man.  He  pro- 
claims himself  unrepentant.  He  announces  himself  with 
pride  to  have  been,  as  all  Brittany  says,  the  scoundrel  who 
hid  himself  under  the  sobriquet  of  Omnes  Omnibus.  Is  that 
to  be  condoned?" 

She  turned  to  look  at  Andr6  across  the  wide  space  that 
now  separated  them. 

"But  is  this  really  so?  Don't  you  repent,  Andr6  —  now 
that  you  see  all  the  harm  that  has  come?" 


262  The  Sword 


It  was  a  clear  invitation  to  him,  a  pleading  to  him  to  say 
that  he  repented,  to  make  his  peace  with  his  godfather.  For 
a  moment  it  almost  moved  him.  Then,  considering  the  sub- 
terfuge unworthy,  he  answered  truthfully,  though  the  pain 
he  was  suffering  rang  in  his  voice. 

"To  confess  repentance,"  he  said  slowly,  "would  be  to 
confess  to  a  monstrous  crime.  Don't  you  see  that?  Oh, 
monsieur,  have  patience  with  me;  let  me  explain  myself  a 
little.  You  say  that  I  am  in  part  responsible  for  something 
of  all  this  that  has  happened.  My  exhortations  of  the 
people  at  Rennes  and  twice  afterwards  at  Nantes  are  said 
to  have  had  their  share  in  what  followed  there.  It  may  be  so. 
It  would  be  beyond  my  power  positively  to  deny  it.  Revo- 
lution followed  and  bloodshed.  More  may  yet  come.  To 
repent  implies  a  recognition  that  I  have  done  wrong.  How 
shall  I  say  that  I  have  done  wrong,  and  thus  take  a  share 
of  the  responsibility  for  all  that  blood  upon  my  soul?  I 
will  be  quite  frank  with  you  to  show  you  how  far,  indeed,  I 
am  from  repentance.  What  I  did,  I  actually  did  against 
all  my  convictions  at  the  time.  Because  there  was  no  justice 
in  France  to  move  against  the  murderer  of  Philippe  de 
Vilmorin,  I  moved  in  the  only  way  that  I  imagined  could 
make  the  evil  done  recoil  upon  the  hand  that  did  it,  and 
those  other  hands  that  had  the  power  but  not  the  spirit  to 
punish.  Since  then  I  have  come  to  see  that  I  was  wrong,  and 
that  Philippe  de  Vilmorin  and  those  who  thought  with  him 
were  in  the  right. 

"You  must  realize,  monsieur,  that  it  is  with  sincerest 
thankfulness  that  I  find  I  have  done  nothing  calling  for 
repentance ;  that,  on  the  contrary,  when  France  is  given  the 
inestimable  boon  of  a  constitution,  as  will  shortly  happen,  I 
may  take  pride  in  having  played  my  part  in  bringing  about 
the  conditions  that  have  made  this  possible." 

There  was  a  pause.  M.  de  Kercadiou's  face  turned  from 
pink  to  purple. 

"You  have  quite  finished?"  he  said  harshly. 

"If  you  have  understood  me,  monsieur." 


At  Meudon  263 


"Oh,  I  have  understood  you,  and  .  .  .  and  I  beg  that  you 
will  go." 

Andr6-Louis  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  hung  his  head. 
He  had  come  there  so  joyously,  in  such  yearning,  merely  to 
receive  a  final  dismissal.  He  looked  at  Aline.  Her  face  was 
pale  and  troubled;  but  her  wit  failed  to  show  her  how  she 
could  come  to  his  assistance.  His  excessive  honesty  had 
burnt  all  his  boats. 

"Very  well,  monsieur.  Yet  this  I  would  ask  you  to  remem- 
ber after  I  am  gone.  I  have  not  come  to  you  as  one  seeking 
assistance,  as  one  driven  to  you  by  need.  I  am  no  return- 
ing prodigal,  as  I  have  said.  I  am  one  who,  needing  nothing, 
asking  nothing,  master  of  his  own  destinies,  has  come  to 
you  driven  by  affection  only,  urged  by  the  love  and  grati- 
tude he  bears  you  and  will  continue  to  bear  you." 

"Ah,  yes!"  cried  Aline,  turning  now  to  her  uncle.  Here 
at  least  was  an  argument  in  Andre's  favour,  thought  she. 
"That  is  true.  Surely  that  ..." 

Inarticulately  he  hissed  her  into  silence,  exasperated. 

"Hereafter  perhaps  that  will  help  you  to  think  of  me  more 
kindly,  monsieur." 

"I  see  no  occasion,  sir,  to  think  of  you  at  all.  Again,  I 
beg  that  you  will  go." 

Andre-Louis  looked  at  Aline  an  instant,  as  if  still  hesi- 
tating. 

She  answered  him  by  a  glance  at  her  furious  uncle,  a 
faint  shrug,  and  a  lift  of  the  eyebrows,  dejection  the  while 
in  her  countenance. 

It  was  as  if  she  said :  "You  see  his  mood.  There  is  nothing 
to  be  done." 

He  bowed  with  that  singular  grace  the  fencing-room  had 
given  him  and  went  out  by  the  door. 

"Oh,  it  is  cruel!"  cried  Aline,  in  a  stifled  voice,  her  hands 
clenched,  and  she  sprang  to  the  window. 

"Aline!"  her  uncle's  voice  arrested  her.  "Where  are  you 
going?" 

"But  we  do  not  know  where  he  is  to  be  found." 


264  The  Sword 

"Who  wants  to  find  the  scoundrel?" 

"We  may  never  see  him  again." 

"That  is  most  fervently  to  be  desired." 

Aline  said  "Ouf !"  and  went  out  by  the  window. 

He  called  after  her,  imperiously  commanding  her  return. 
But  Aline  —  dutiful  child  —  closed  her  ears  lest  she  must 
disobey  him,  and  sped  light-footed  across  the  lawn  to  the 
avenue  there  to  intercept  the  departing  Andr£-Louis. 

As  he  came  forth  wrapped  in' gloom,  she  stepped  from  the 
bordering  trees  into  his  path. 

"Aline!"  he  cried,  joyously  almost. 

"  I  did  not  want  you  to  go  like  this.  I  could  n't  let  you," 
she  explained  herself.  "  I  know  him  better  than  you  do,  and 
I  know  that  his  great  soft  heart  will  presently  melt.  He 
will  be  filled  with  regret.  He  will  want  to  send  for  you,  and 
he  will  not  know  where  to  send." 

"You  think  that?" 

"Oh,  I  know  it!  You  arrive  in  a  bad  moment.  He  is 
peevish  and  cross-grained,  poor  man,  since  he  came  here. 
These  soft  surroundings  are  all  so  strange  to  him.  He 
wearies  himself  away  from  his  beloved  Gavrillac,  his  hunting 
and  tillage,  and  the  truth  is  that  in  his  mind  he  very  largely 
blames  you  for  what  has  happened  —  for  the  necessity,  or 
at  least,  the  wisdom,  of  this  change.  Brittany,  you  must 
know,  was  becoming  too  unsafe.  The  chateau  of  La  Tour 
d'Azyr,  amongst  others,  was  burnt  to  the  ground  some 
months  ago.  At  any  moment,  given  a  fresh  excitement,  it 
may  be  the  turn  of  Gavrillac.  And  for  this  and  his  present 
discomfort  he  blames  you  and  your  friends.  But  he  will 
come  round  presently.  He  will  be  sorry  that  he  sent  you 
away  like  this  —  for  I  know  that  he  loves  you,  Andre,  in 
spite  of  all.  I  shall  reason  with  him  when  the  time  comes. 
And  then  we  shall  want  to  know  where  to  find  you." 

"At  number  13,  Rue  du  Hasard.  The  number  is  unlucky, 
the  name  of  the  street  appropriate.  Therefore  both  are  easy 
to  remember." 

She  nodded.    "I  will  walk  with  you  to  the  gates."   And 


At  Meudon  265 


side  by  side  now  they  proceeded  at  a  leisurely  pace  down  the 
long  avenue  in  the  June  sunshine  dappled  by  the  shadows  of 
the  bordering  trees.  "You  are  looking  well,  Andre;  and  do 
you  know  that  you  have  changed  a  deal?  I  am  glad  that 
you  have  prospered."  And  then,  abruptly  changing  the 
subject  before  he  had  time  to  answer  her,  she  came  to  the 
matter  uppermost  in  her  mind. 

"I  have  so  wanted  to  see  you  in  all  these  months,  Andr6. 
You  were  the  only  one  who  could  help  me;  the  only  one 
who  could  tell  me  the  truth,  and  I  was  angry  with  you  for 
never  having  written  to  say  where  you  were  to  be  found." 

"Of  course  you  encouraged  me  to  do  so  when  last  we  met 
in  Nantes." 

"What?  Still  resentful?" 

"I  am  never  resentful.  You  should  know  that."  He  ex- 
pressed one  of  his  vanities.  He  loved  to  think  himself  a 
Stoic.  "But  I  still  bear  the  scar  of  a  wound  that  would  be 
the  better  for  the  balm  of  your  retraction." 

"Why,  then,  I  retract,  Andre.   And  now  tell  me  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  a  self-seeking  retraction,"  said  he.  "You  give  me 
something  that  you  may  obtain  something."  He  laughed 
quite  pleasantly.  "Well,  well;  command  me." 

"Tell  me,  Andre."  She  paused,  as  if  in  some  difficulty, 
and  then  went  on,  her  eyes  upon  the  ground:  "Tell  me  — 
the  truth  of  that  event  at  the  Feydau." 

The  request  fetched  a  frown  to  his  brow.  He  suspected 
at  once  the  thought  that  prompted  it.  Quite  simply  and 
briefly  he  gave  her  his  version  of  the  affair. 

She  listened  very  attentively.  When  he  had  done  she 
sighed;  her  face  was  very  thoughtful. 

"That  is  much  what  I  was  told,"  she  said.  "But  it  was 
added  that  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr  had  gone  to  the  theatre 
expressly  for  the  purpose  of  breaking  finally  with  La  Binet. 
Do  you  know  if  that  was  so?" 

"I  don't;  nor  of  any  reason  why  it  should  be  so.  La 
Binet  provided  him  the  sort  of  amusement  that  he  and  his 
kind  are  forever  craving  ..." 


266  The  Sword 


"Oh,  there  was  a  reason,"  she  interrupted  him.  "I  was 
the  reason.  I  spoke  to  Mme.  de  Sautron.  I  told  her  that  I 
would  not  continue  to  receive  one  who  came  to  me  contam- 
inated in  that  fashion."  She  spoke  of  it  with  obvious  diffi- 
culty, her  colour  rising  as  he  watched  her  half-averted  face. 

"Had  you  listened  to  me  .  .  ."  he  was  beginning,  when 
again  she  interrupted  him. 

"M.  de  Sautron  conveyed  my  decision  to  him,  and  after- 
wards represented  him  to  me  as  a  man  in  despair,  repent- 
ant, ready  to  give  proofs  —  any  proofs  —  of  his  sincerity  and 
devotion  to  me.  He  told  me  that  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr 
had  sworn  to  him  that  he  would  cut  short  that  affair,  that 
he  would  see  La  Binet  no  more.  And  then,  on  the  very  next 
day  I  heard  of  his  having  all  but  lost  his  life  in  that  riot  at 
the  theatre.  He  had  gone  straight  from  that  interview  with 
M.  de  Sautron,  straight  from  those  protestations  of  future 
wisdom,  to  La  Binet.  I  was  indignant.  I  pronounced  my- 
self finally.  I  stated  definitely  that  I  would  not  in  any  cir- 
cumstances receive  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr  again.  And  then 
they  pressed  this  explanation  upon  me.  For  a  long  time  I 
would  not  believe  it." 

"So  that  you  believe  it  now,"  said  Andr6  quickly. 
"Why?" 

"I  have  not  said  that  I  believe  it  now.  But  .  .  .  but  .  .  . 
neither  can  I  disbelieve.  Since  we  came  to  Meudon  M.  de 
La  Tour  d'Azyr  has  been  here,  and  himself  he  has  sworn  to 
me  that  it  was  so." 

"Oh,  if  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr  has  sworn  .  .  ."  Andr6- 
Louis  was  laughing  on  a  bitter  note  of  sarcasm. 

"Have  you  ever  known  him  lie?"  she  cut  in  sharply. 
That  checked  him.  "M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr  is,  after  all, 
a  man  of  honour,  and  men  of  honour  never  deal  in  falsehood. 
Have  you  ever  known  him  do  so,  that  you  should  sneer  as 
you  have  done?" 

"No,"  he  confessed.  Common  justice  demanded  that 
he  should  admit  that  virtue  at  least  in  his  enemy.  "I  have 
not  known  him  lie,  it  is  true.  His  kind  is  too  arrogant,  too 


At  Meudon  267 


self-confident  to  have  recourse  to  untruth.  But  I  have  known 
him  do  things  as  vile  ..." 

"Nothing  is  as  vile,"  she  interrupted,  speaking  from  the 
code  by  which  she  had  been  reared.  "  It  is  for  liars  only  — 
who  are  first  cousin  to  thieves  —  that  there  is  no  hope.  It  is 
in  falsehood  only  that  there  is  real  loss  of  honour." 

"You  are  defending  that  satyr,  I  think,"  he  said  frostily. 

"I  desire  to  be  just." 

"Justice  may  seem  to  you  a  different  matter  when  at  last 
you  shall  have  resolved  yourself  to  become  Marquise  de  La 
Tour  d'Azyr."  He  spoke  bitterly. 

"I  don't  think  that  I  shall  ever  take  that  resolve." 

"But  you  are  still  not  sure  —  in  spite  of  everything." 

"Can  one  ever  be  sure  of  anything  in  this  world?" 

"Yes.   One  can  be  sure  of  being  foolish." 

Either  she  did  not  hear  or  did  not  heed  him. 

"You  do  not  of  your  own  knowledge  know  that  it  was  not 
as  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr  asserts  —  that  he  went  to  the 
Feydau  that  night?" 

"I  don't,"  he  admitted.  "It  is  of  course  possible.  But 
does  it  matter?" 

"It  might  matter.  Tell  me;  what  became  of  La  Binet 
after  all?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"You  don't  know?"  She  turned  to  consider  him.  "And 
you  can  say  it  with  that  indifference!  I  thought  ...  I 
thought  you  loved  her,  Andre." 

"So  did  I,  for  a  little  while.  I  was  mistaken.  It  required 
a  La  Tour  d'Azyr  to  disclose  the  truth  to  me.  They  have 
their  uses,  these  gentlemen.  They  help  stupid  fellows  like 
myself  to  perceive  important  truths.  I  was  fortunate  that 
revelation  in  my  case  preceded  marriage.  I  can  now  look 
back  upon  the  episode  with  equanimity  and  thankfulness 
for  my  near  escape  from  the  consequences  of  what  was  no 
more  than  an  aberration  of  the  senses.  It  is  a  thing  com- 
monly confused  with  love.  The  experience,  as  you  see,  was 
very  instructive." 


268  The  Sword 


She  looked  at  him  in  frank  surprise. 

"Do  you  know,  Andr6,  I  sometimes  think  that  you  have 
no  heart." 

"Presumably  because  I  sometimes  betray  intelligence. 
And  what  of  yourself,  Aline?  What  of  your  own  attitude 
from  the  outset  where  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr  is  concerned? 
Does  that  show  heart?  If  I  were  to  tell  you  what  it  really 
shows,  we  should  end  by  quarrelling  again,  and  God  knows 
I  can't  afford  to  quarrel  with  you  now.  I  ...  I  shall  take 
another  way." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Why,  nothing  at  the  moment,  for  you  are  not  in  any 
danger  of  marrying  that  animal." 

"And  if  I  were?" 

"Ah!  In  that  case  affection  for  you  would  discover  to  me 
some  means  of  preventing  it  —  unless  ..."  He  paused. 

"Unless?"  she  demanded,  challengingly,  drawn  to  the 
full  of  her  short  height,  her  eyes  imperious. 

"Unless  you  could  also  tell  me  that  you  loved  him,"  said 
he  simply,  whereat  she  was  as  suddenly  and  most  oddly 
softened.  And  then  he  added,  shaking  his  head:  "But  that 
of  course  is  impossible." 

"Why?"  she  asked  him,  quite  gently  now. 

"Because  you  are  what  you  are,  Aline  —  utterly  good  and 
pure  and  adorable.  Angels  do  not  mate  with  devils.  His 
wife  you  might  become,  but  never  his  mate,  Aline  —  never." 

They  had  reached  the  wrought-iron  gates  at  the  end  of  the 
avenue.  Through  these  they  beheld  the  waiting  yellow 
chaise  which  had  brought  Andr£-Louis.  From  near  at  hand 
came  the  creak  of  other  wheels,  the  beat  of  other  hooves, 
and  now  another  vehicle  came  in  sight,  and  drew  to  a  stand- 
still beside  the  yellow  chaise  —  a  handsome  equipage  with 
polished  mahogany  panels  on  which  the  gold  and  azure  of 
armorial  bearings  flashed  brilliantly  in  the  sunlight.  A  foot- 
man swung  to  earth  to  throw  wide  the  gates;  but  in  that 
moment  the  lady  who  occupied  the  carriage,  perceiving 
Aline,  waved  to  her  and  issued  a  command. 


CHAPTER  V 
MADAME  DE  PLOUGASTEL 

THE  postilion  drew  rein,  and  the  footman  opened  the  door, 
letting  down  the  steps  and  proffering  his  arm  to  his  mistress 
to  assist  her  to  alight,  since  that  was  the  wish  she  had  ex- 
pressed. Then  he  opened  one  wing  of  the  iron  gates,  and 
held  it  for  her.  She  was  a  woman  of  something  more  than 
forty,  who  once  must  have  been  very  lovely,  who  was  very 
lovely  still  with  the  refining  quality  that  age  brings  to 
some  women.  Her  dress  and  carriage  alike  advertised 
great  rank. 

"I  take  my  leave  here,  since  you  have  a  visitor,"  said 
Andre-Louis. 

"But  it  is  an  old  acquaintance  of  your  own,  Andre.  You 
remember  Mme.  la  Comtesse  de  Plougastel?" 

He  looked  at  the  approaching  lady,  whom  Aline  was  now 
hastening  forward  to  meet,  and  because  she  was  named  to 
him  he  recognized  her.  He  must,  he  thought,  had  he  but 
looked,  have  recognized  her  without  prompting  anywhere 
at  any  time,  and  this  although  it  was  some  sixteen  years 
since  last  he  had  seen  her.  The  sight  of  her  now  brought  it 
all  back  to  him  —  a  treasured  memory  that  had  never  per- 
mitted itself  to  be  entirely  overlaid  by  subsequent  events. 

When  he  was  a  boy  of  ten,  on  the  eve  of  being  sent  to 
school  at  Rennes,  she  had  come  on  a  visit  to  his  godfather, 
who  was  her  cousin.  It  happened  that  at  the  time  he  was 
taken  by  Rabouillet  to  the  Manor  of  Gavrillac,  and  there 
he  had  been  presented  to  Mme.  de  Plougastel.  The  great 
lady,  in  all  the  glory  then  of  her  youthful  beauty,  with  her 
gentle,  cultured  voice  —  so  cultured  that  she  had  seemed  to 
speak  a  language  almost  unknown  to  the  little  Breton  lad  — 
and  her  majestic  air  of  the  great  world,  had  scared  him  a 
little  at  first.  Very  gently  had  she  allayed  those  fears  of  his, 


270  The  Sword 


and  by  some  mysterious  enchantment  she  had  completely 
enslaved  his  regard.  He  recalled  now  the  terror  in  which 
he  had  gone  to  the  embrace  to  which  he  was  bidden,  and 
the  subsequent  reluctance  with  which  he  had  left  those  soft 
round  arms.  He  remembered,  too,  how  sweetly  she  had 
smelled  and  the  very  perfume  she  had  used,  a  perfume  as  of 
lilac  —  for  memory  is  singularly  tenacious  in  these  matters. 

For  three  days  whilst  she  had  been  at  Gavrillac,  he  had 
gone  daily  to  the  manor,  and  so  had  spent  hours  in  her  com- 
pany. A  childless  woman  with  the  maternal  instinct  strong 
within  her,  she  had  taken  this  precociously  intelligent,  wide- 
eyed  lad  to  her  heart. 

"Give  him  to  me,  Cousin  Quintin,"  he  remembered  her 
saying  on  the  last  of  those  days  to  his  godfather.  "Let  me 
take  him  back  with  me  to  Versailles  as  my  adopted  child." 

But  the  Seigneur  had  gravely  shaken  his  head  in  silent  re- 
fusal, and  there  had  been  no  further  question  of  such  a  thing. 
And  then,  when  she  said  good-bye  to  him  —  the  thing  came 
flooding  back  to  him  now  —  there  had  been  tears  in  her 
eyes. 

"Think  of  me  sometimes,  Andr£-Louis,"  had  been  her 
last  words. 

He  remembered  how  flattered  he  had  been  to  have  won 
within  so  short  a  time  the  affection  of  this  great  lady.  The 
thing  had  given  him  a  sense  of  importance  that  had  en- 
dured for  months  thereafter,  finally  to  fade  into  oblivion. 

But  all  was  vividly  remembered  now  upon  beholding  her 
again,  after  sixteen  years,  profoundly  changed  and  matured, 
the  girl  —  for  she  had  been  no  more  in  those  old  days  —  sunk 
in  this  worldly  woman  with  the  air  of  calm  dignity  and  com- 
plete self-possession.  Yet,  he  insisted,  he  must  have  known 
her  anywhere  again. 

Aline  embraced  her  affectionately,  and  then  answering  the 
questioning  glance  with  faintly  raised  eyebrows  that  madame 
was  directing  towards  Aline's  companion  — 

"This  is  Andr£-Louis,"  she  said.  "You  remember  Andr£- 
Louis,  madame?" 


Madame  de  Plougastel  271 

Madame  checked.  Andre-Louis  saw  the  surprise  ripple 
over  her  face,  taking  with  it  some  of  her  colour,  leaving  her 
for  a  moment  breathless. 

And  then  the  voice  —  the  well-remembered  rich,  musical 
voice  —  richer  and  deeper  now  than  of  yore,  repeated  his 
name: 

"Andre-Louis!" 

Her  manner  of  uttering  it  suggested  that  it  awakened 
memories,  memories  perhaps  of  the  departed  youth  with 
which  it  was  associated.  And  she  paused  a  long  moment, 
considering  him,  a  little  wide-eyed,  what  time  he  bowed 
before  her. 

"But  of  course  I  remember  him,"  she  said  at  last,  and  came 
towards  him,  putting  out  her  hand.  He  kissed  it  dutifully, 
submissively,  instinctively.  "And  this  is  what  you  have 
grown  into?"  She  appraised  him,  and  he  flushed  with  pride 
at  the  satisfaction  in  her  tone.  He  seemed  to  have  gone  back 
sixteen  years,  and  to  be  again  the  little  Breton  lad  at 
Gavrillac.  She  turned  to  Aline.  "How  mistaken  Quintin 
was  in  his  assumptions.  He  was  pleased  to  see  him  again,  was 
he  not?" 

"So  pleased,  madame,  that  he  has  shown  me  the  door," 
said  Andr6-Louis. 

"Ah!"  She  frowned,  conning  him  still  with  those  dark, 
wistful  eyes  of  hers.  "  We  must  change  that,  Aline.  He  is  of 
course  very  angry  with  you.  But  it  is  not  the  way  to  make 
converts.  I  will  plead  for  you,  Andre-Louis.  I  am  a  good 
advocate." 

He  thanked  her  and  took  his  leave. 

"  I  leave  my  case  in  your  hands  with  gratitude.  My  hom- 
age, madame." 

And  so  it  happened  that  in  spite  of  his  godfather's  forbid- 
ding reception  of  him,  the  fragment  of  a  song  was  on  his  lips 
as  his  yellow  chaise  whirled  him  back  to  Paris  and  the  Rue 
du  Hasard.  That  meeting  with  Mme.  de  Plougastel  had  en- 
heartened  him ;  her  promise  to  plead  his  case  in  alliance  with 
Aline  gave  him  assurance  that  all  would  be  well. 


272  The  Sword 


That  he  was  justified  of  this  was  proved  when  on  the  fol- 
lowing Thursday  towards  noon  his  academy  was  invaded  by 
M.  de  Kercadiou.  Gilles,  the  boy,  brought  him  word  of  it, 
and  breaking  off  at  once  the  lesson  upon  which  he  was  en- 
gaged, he  pulled  off  his  mask,  and  went  as  he  was  —  in  a 
chamois  waistcoat  buttoned  to  the  chin  and  with  his  foil 
under  his  arm  to  the  modest  salon  below,  where  his  godfather 
awaited  him. 

The  florid  little  Lord  of  Gavrillac  stood  almost  defiantly  to 
receive  him. 

"I  have  been  over-persuaded  to  forgive  you,"  he  an- 
nounced aggressively,  seeming  thereby  to  imply  that  he  con- 
sented to  this  merely  so  as  to  put  an  end  to  tiresome  im- 
portunities. 

Andre-Louis  was  not  misled.  He  detected  a  pretence 
adopted  by  the  Seigneur  so  as  to  enable  him  to  retreat  in 
good  order. 

"My  blessings  on  the  persuaders,  whoever  they  may  have 
been.  You  restore  me  my  happiness,  monsieur  my  god- 
father." 

He  took  the  hand  that  was  proffered  and  kissed  it,  yielding 
to  the  impulse  of  the  unfailing  habit  of  his  boyish  days.  It 
was  an  act  symbolical  of  his  complete  submission,  reestab- 
lishing between  himself  and  his  godfather  the  bond  of  pro- 
tected and  protector,  with  all  the  mutual  claims  and  duties 
that  it  carries.  No  mere  words  could  more  completely  have 
made  his  peace  with  this  man  who  loved  him. 

M.  de  Kercadiou's  face  flushed  a  deeper  pink,  his  lip 
trembled,  and  there  was  a  huskiness  in  the  voice  that  mur- 
mured "  My  dear  boy ! "  Then  he  recollected  himself,  threw 
back  his  great  head  and  frowned.  His  voice  resumed  its 
habitual  shrillness.  "You  realize,  I  hope,  that  you  have  be- 
haved damnably  .  .  .  damnably,  and  with  the  utmost  in- 
gratitude?" 

"Does  not  that  depend  upon  the  point  of  view?"  quoth 
Andre-Louis,  but  his  tone  was  studiously  conciliatory. 

"It  depends  upon  a  fact,  and  not  upon  any  point  of  view. 


Madame  de  Plougastel  273 

Since  I  have  been  persuaded  to  overlook  it,  I  trust  that  at 
least  you  have  some  intention  of  reforming." 

"I  ...  I  will  abstain  from  politics,"  said  Andre-Louis, 
that  being  the  utmost  he  could  say  with  truth. 

"That  is  something,  at  least."  His  godfather  permitted 
himself  to  be  mollified,  now  that  a  concession  —  or  a  seem- 
ing concession  —  had  been  made  to  his  just  resentment. 

"A  chair,  monsieur." 

"  No,  no.  I  have  come  to  carry  you  off  to  pay  a  visit  with 
me.  You  owe  it  entirely  to  Mme.  de  Plougastel  that  I  con- 
sent to  receive  you  again.  I  desire  that  you  come  with  me 
to  thank  her." 

"I  have  my  engagements  here  ..."  began  Andre-Louis, 
and  then  broke  off.  "No  matter!  I  will  arrange  it.  A 
moment."  And  he  was  turning  away  to  reenter  the  academy. 

"What  are  your  engagements?  You  are  not  by  chance  a 
fencing-instructor?"  M.  de  Kercadiou  had  observed  the 
leather  waistcoat  and  the  foil  tucked  under  Andre-Louis' 
arm. 

"  I  am  the  master  of  this  academy  —  the  academy  of  the 
late  Bertrand  des  Amis,  the  most  flourishing  school  of  arms 
in  Paris  to-day." 

M.  de  Kercadiou 's  brows  went  up. 

"And  you  are  master  of  it?" 

"Maitre  en  fait  d'armes.  I  succeeded  to  the  academy 
upon  the  death  of  des  Amis." 

He  left  M.  Kercadiou  to  think  it  over,  and  went  to  make 
his  arrangements  and  effect  the  necessary  changes  in  his 
toilet. 

"So  that  is  why  you  have  taken  to  wearing  a  sword," 
said  M.  de  Kercadiou,  as  they  climbed  into  his  waiting 
carriage. 

"That  and  the  need  to  guard  one's  self  in  these  times." 

"And  do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  a  man  who  lives  by 
what  is  after  all  an  honourable  profession,  a  profession 
mainly  supported  by  the  nobility,  can  at  the  same  time  as- 
sociate himself  with  these  peddling  attorneys  and  low  pam- 


274  ^e  Sword 


phleteers  who  are  spreading  dissension  and  insubordina- 
tion?" 

"You  forget  that  I  am  a  peddling  attorney  myself,  made 
so  by  your  own  wishes,  monsieur." 

M.  de  Kercadiou  grunted,  and  took  snuff.  "You  say  the 
academy  flourishes?"  he  asked  presently. 

"  It  does.  I  have  two  assistant  instructors.  I  could  em- 
ploy a  third.  It  is  hard  work." 

"That  should  mean  that  your  circumstances  are  affluent." 

"I  have  reason  to  be  satisfied.  I  have  far  more  than  I 
need." 

"Then  you'll  be  able  to  do  your  share  in  paying  off  this 
national  debt,"  growled  the  nobleman,  well  content  that  — 
as  he  conceived  it  —  some  of  the  evil  Andr6-Louis  had 
helped  to  sow  should  recoil  upon  him. 

Then  the  talk  veered  to  Mme.  de  Plougastel.  M.  de 
Kercadiou,  Andr£-Louis  gathered,  but  not  the  reason  for  it, 
disapproved  most  strongly  of  this  visit.  But  then  Madame 
la  Comtesse  was  a  headstrong  woman  whom  there  was  no 
denying,  whom  all  the  world  obeyed.  M.  de  Plougastel  was 
at  present  absent  in  Germany,  but  would  shortly  be  return- 
ing. It  was  an  indiscreet  admission  from  which  it  was  easy 
to  infer  that  M.  de  Plougastel  was  one  of  those  intriguing 
emissaries  who  came  and  went  between  the  Queen  of  France 
and  her  brother,  the  Emperor  of  Austria. 

The  carriage  drew  up  before  a  handsome  hotel  in  the 
Faubourg  Saint-Denis,  at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  Paradis,  and 
they  were  ushered  by  a  sleek  servant  into  a  little  boudoir, 
all  gilt  and  brocade,  that  opened  upon  a  terrace  above  a 
garden  that  was  a  park  in  miniature.  Here  madame  awaited 
them.  She  rose,  dismissing  the  young  person  who  had  been 
reading  to  her,  and  came  forward  with  both  hands  outheld  to 
greet  her  cousin  Kercadiou. 

"I  almost  feared  you  would  not  keep  your  word,"  she 
said.  "It  was  unjust.  But  then  I  hardly  hoped  that  you 
would  succeed  in  bringing  him."  And  her  glance,  gentle, 
and  smiling  welcome  upon  him,  indicated  Andr6-Louis. 


Madame  de  Plougastel  275 

The  young  man  made  answer  with  formal  gallantry. 

"The  memory  of  you,  madame,  is  too  deeply  imprinted  on 
my  heart  for  any  persuasions  to  have  been  necessary." 

"Ah,  the  courtier!"  said  madame,  and  abandoned  him 
her  hand.  "We  are  to  have  a  little  talk,  Andre-Louis,"  she 
informed  him,  with  a  gravity  that  left  him  vaguely  ill  at 
ease. 

They  sat  down,  and  for  a  while  the  conversation  was  of 
general  matters,  chiefly  concerned,  however,  with  Andr6- 
Louis,  his  occupations  and  his  views.  And  all  the  while 
madame  was  studying  him  attentively  with  those  gentle, 
wistful  eyes,  until  again  that  sense  of  uneasiness  began  to 
pervade  him.  He  realized  instinctively  that  he  had  been 
brought  here  for  some  purpose  deeper  than  that  which  had 
been  avowed. 

At  last,  as  if  the  thing  were  concerted  —  and  the  clumsy 
Lord  of  Gavrillac  was  the  last  man  in  the  world  to  cover  his 
tracks  —  his  godfather  rose  and,  upon  a  pretext  of  desiring 
to  survey  the  garden,  sauntered  through  the  windows  on  to 
the  terrace,  over  whose  white  stone  balustrade  the  geraniums 
trailed  in  a  scarlet  riot.  Thence  he  vanished  among  the 
foliage  below. 

"Now  we  can  talk  more  intimately,"  said  madame. 
"Come  here,  and  sit  beside  me."  She  indicated  the  empty 
half  of  the  settee  she  occupied. 

Andr6-Louis  went  obediently,  but  a  little  uncomfortably. 

"You  know,"  she  said  gently,  placing  a  hand  upon  his 
arm,  "that  you  have  behaved  very  ill,  that  your  godfather's 
resentment  is  very  justly  founded?" 

"Madame,  if  I  knew  that,  I  should  be  the  most  unhappy, 
the  most  despairing  of  men."  And  he  explained  himself,  as 
he  had  explained  himself  on  Sunday  to  his  godfather.  "What 
I  did,  I  did  because  it  was  the  only  means  to  my  hand  in  a 
country  in  which  justice  was  paralyzed  by  Privilege  to 
make  war  upon  an  infamous  scoundrel  who  had  killed  my 
best  friend  —  a  wanton,  brutal  act  of  murder,  which  there 
was  no  law  to  punish.  And  as  if  that  were  not  enough  — 


276  The  Sword 


forgive  me  if  I  speak  with  the  utmost  frankness,  madame 
—  he  afterwards  debauched  the  woman  I  was  to  have 
married." 

"Ah,  mon  Dieu!"  she  cried  out. 

'Forgive  me.  I  know  that  it  is  horrible.  You  perceive, 
perhaps,  what  I  suffered,  how  I  came  to  be  driven.  That 
last  affair  of  which  I  am  guilty  —  the  riot  that  began  in  the 
Feydau  Theatre  and  afterwards  enveloped  the  whole  city 
of  Nantes  —  was  provoked  by  this." 

"Who  was  she,  this  girl?" 

It  was  like  a  woman,  he  thought,  to  fasten  upon  the  un- 
essential. 

"Oh,  a  theatre  girl,  a  poor  fool  of  whom  I  have  no  regrets. 
La  Binet  was  her  name.  I  was  a  player  at  the  time  in  her 
father's  troupe.  That  was  after  the  Rennes  business,  when 
it  was  necessary  to  hide  from  such  justice  as  exists  in 
France  —  the  gallows'  justice  for  unfortunates  who  are  not 
'born.'  This  added  wrong  led  me  to  provoke  a  riot  in  the 
theatre." 

"Poor  boy,"  she  said  tenderly.  "Only  a  woman's  heart 
can  realize  what  you  must  have  suffered;  and  because  of 
that  I  can  so  readily  forgive  you.  But  now  .  .  ." 

"Ah,  but  you  don't  understand,  madame.  If  to-day  I 
thought  that  I  had  none  but  personal  grounds  for  having 
lent  a  hand  in  the  holy  work  of  abolishing  Privilege,  I  think 
I  should  cut  my  throat.  My  true  justification  lies  in  the  in- 
sincerity of  those  who  intended  that  the  convocation  of  the 
States  General  should  be  a  sham,  mere  dust  in  the  eyes  of 
the  nation." 

"Was  it  not,  perhaps,  wise  to  have  been  insincere  in  such 
a  matter?" 

He  looked  at  her  blankly. 

"Can  it  ever  be  wise,  madame,  to  be  insincere?" 

"Oh,  indeed  it  can;  believe  me,  who  am  twice  your  age, 
and  know  my  world." 

"I  should  say,  madame,  that  nothing  is  wise  that  com- 
plicates existence;  and  I  know  of  nothing  that  so  compli- 


Madame  de  Plougastel  277 

cates  it  as  insincerity.  Consider  a  moment  the  complica- 
tions that  have  arisen  out  of  this." 

"But  surely,  Andr£-Louis,  your  views  have  not  been  so 
perverted  that  you  do  not  see  that  a  governing  class  is  a 
necessity  in  any  country?" 

"Why,  of  course.  But  not  necessarily  a  hereditary  one." 

"What  else?" 

He  answered  her  with  an  epigram.  "Man,  madame,  is 
the  child  of  his  own  work.  Let  there  be  no  inheriting  of 
rights  but  from  such  a  parent.  Thus  a  nation's  best  will 
always  predominate,  and  such  a  nation  will  achieve 
greatly." 

"But  do  you  account  birth  of  no  importance?" 

"Of  none,  madame  —  or  else  my  own  might  trouble  me." 

From  the  deep  flush  that  stained  her  face,  he  feared  that 
he  had  offended  by  what  was  almost  an  indelicacy.  But 
the  reproof  that  he  was  expecting  did  not  come.  Instead  — 

"And  does  it  not?"  she  asked.    "Never,  Andr£?" 

"Never,  madame.   I  am  content." 

"You  have  never  . . .  never  regretted  your  lack  of  parents' 
care?" 

He  laughed,  sweeping  aside  her  sweet  charitable  concern 
that  was  so  superfluous.  "On  the  contrary,  madame,  I 
tremble  to  think  what  they  might  have  made  of  me,  and  I 
am  grateful  to  have  had  the  fashioning  of  myself." 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  very  sadly,  and  then, 
smiling,  gently  shook  her  head. 

"You  do  not  want  self-satisfaction.  Yet  I  could  wish  that 
you  saw  things  differently,  Andr6.  It  is  a  moment  of  great 
opportunities  for  a  young  man  of  talent  and  spirit.  I  could 
help  you;  I  could  help  you,  perhaps,  to  go  very  far  if  you 
would  permit  yourself  to  be  helped  after  my  fashion." 

"Yes,"  he  thought,  "help  me  to  a  halter  by  sending  me 
on  treasonable  missions  to  Austria  on  the  Queen's  behalf, 
like  M.  de  Plougastel.  That  would  certainly  end  in  a  high 
position  for  me." 

Aloud  he  answered  more  as  politeness  prompted. 


278  The  Sword 


"I  am  grateful,  madame.  But  you  will  see  that,  holding 
the  ideals  I  have  expressed,  I  could  not  serve  any  cause  that 
is  opposed  to  their  realization." 

"You  are  misled  by  prejudice,  Andr6-Louis,  by  personal 
grievances.  Will  you  allow  them  to  stand  in  the  way  of 
your  advancement?" 

"If  what  I  call  ideals  were  really  prejudices,  would  it  be 
honest  of  me  to  run  counter  to  them  whilst  holding  them?" 

"If  I  could  convince  you  that  you  are  mistaken!  I  could 
help  you  so  much  to  find  a  worthy  employment  for  the  tal- 
ents you  possess.  In  the  service  of  the  King  you  would 
prosper  quickly.  Will  you  think  of  it,  Andre-Louis,  and  let 
us  talk  of  this  again?" 

He  answered  her  with  formal,  chill  politeness. 

"I  fear  that  it  would  be  idle,  madame.  Yet  your  interest 
in  me  is  very  flattering,  and  I  thank  you.  It  is  unfortunate 
for  me  that  I  am  so  headstrong." 

"And  now  who  deals  in  insincerity?"  she  asked  him. 

"Ah,  but  you  see,  madame,  it  is  an  insincerity  that  does 
not  mislead." 

And  then  M.  de  Kercadiou  came  in  through  the  window 
again,  and  announced  fussily  that  he  must  be  getting  back 
to  Meudon,  and  that  he  would  take  his  godson  with  him  and 
set  him  down  at  the  Rue  du  Hasard. 

"You  must  bring  him  again,  Quintin,"  the  Countess  said, 
as  they  took  their  leave  of  her. 

"Some  day,  perhaps,"  said  M.  de  Kercadiou  vaguely,  and 
swept  his  godson  out. 

In  the  carriage  he  asked  him  bluntly  of  what  madame  had 
talked. 

"She  was  very  kind  —  a  sweet  woman,"  said  Andr6- 
Louis  pensively. 

"Devil  take  you,  I  did  n't  ask  you  the  opinion  that  you 
presume  to  have  formed  of  her.  I  asked  you  what  she  said 
to  you." 

"She  strove  to  point  out  to  me  the  error  of  my  ways.  She 
spoke  of  great  things  that  I  might  do  —  to  which  she  would 


Madame  de  Plougastel  279 

very  kindly  help  me  —  if  I  were  to  come  to  my  senses.  But 
as  miracles  do  not  happen,  I  gave  her  little  encouragement 
to  hope." 

"I  see.    I  see.    Did  she  say  anything  else?" 

He  was  so  peremptory  that  Andre-Louis  turned  to  look 
at  him. 

"What  else  did  you  expect  her  to  say,  monsieur  my  god- 
father?" 

"Oh,  nothing." 

"Then  she  fulfilled  your  expectations." 

"Eh?  Oh,  a  thousand  devils,  why  can't  you  express 
yourself  in  a  sensible  manner  that  a  plain  man  can  under- 
stand without  having  to  think  about  it?" 

He  sulked  after  that  most  of  the  way  to  the  Rue  du  Has- 
ard,  or  so  it  seemed  to  Andr£-Louis.  At  least  he  sat  silent, 
gloomily  thoughtful  to  judge  by  his  expression. 

"You  may  come  and  see  us  soon  again  at  Meudon,"  he 
told  Andr£-Louis  at  parting.  "But  please  remember  —  no 
revolutionary  politics  in  future,  if  we  are  to  remain  friends." 


CHAPTER  VI 
POLITICIANS 

ONE  morning  in  August  the  academy  in  the  Rue  du  Hasard 
was  invaded  by  Le  Chapelier  accompanied  by  a  man  of 
remarkable  appearance,  whose  herculean  stature  and  dis- 
figured countenance  seemed  vaguely  familiar  to  Andre- 
Louis.  He  was  a  man  of  little,  if  anything,  over  thirty,  with 
small  bright  eyes  buried  in  an  enormous  face.  His  cheek- 
bones were  prominent,  his  nose  awry,  as  if  it  had  been 
broken  by  a  blow,  and  his  mouth  was  rendered  almost 
shapeless  by  the  scars  of  another  injury.  (A  bull  had 
horned  him  in  the  face  when  he  was  but  a  lad.)  As  if  that 
were  not  enough  to  render  his  appearance  terrible,  his  cheeks 
were  deeply  pock-marked.  He  was  dressed  untidily  'in  a 
long  scarlet  coat  that  descended  almost  to  his  ankles,  soiled 
buckskin  breeches  and  boots  with  reversed  tops.  His  shirt, 
none  too  clean,  was  open  at  the  throat,  the  collar  hanging 
limply  over  an  unknotted  cravat,  displaying  fully  the  mus- 
cular neck  that  rose  like  a  pillar  from  his  massive  shoulders. 
He  swung  a  cane  that  was  almost  a  club  in  his  left  hand,  and 
there  was  a  cockade  in  his  biscuit-coloured,  conical  hat.  He 
carried  himself  with  an  aggressive,  masterful  air,  that  great 
head  of  his  thrown  back  as  if  he  were  eternally  at  defiance. 

Le  Chapelier,  whose  manner  was  very  grave,  named  him 
to  Andre-Louis. 

"This  is  M.  Danton,  a  brother-lawyer,  President  of  the 
Cordeliers,  of  whom  you  will  have  heard." 

Of  course  Andre-Louis  had  heard  of  him.  Who  had  not, 
by  then? 

Looking  at  him  now  with  interest,  Andre-Louis  wondered 
how  it  came  that  all,  or  nearly  all  the  leading  innovators, 
were  pock-marked.  Mirabeau,  the  journalist  Desmoulins, 
the  philanthropist  Marat,  Robespierre  the  little  lawyer 


Politicians  281 


from  Arras,  this  formidable  fellow  Danton,  and  several 
others  he  could  call  to  mind  all  bore  upon  them  the  scars  of 
smallpox.  Almost  he  began  to  wonder  was  there  any  con- 
nection between  the  two.  Did  an  attack  of  smallpox  pro- 
duce certain  moral  results  which  found  expression  in  this 
way? 

He  dismissed  the  idle  speculation,  or  rather  it  was  shat- 
tered by  the  startling  thunder  of  Danton's  voice. 

"This Chapelier  has  told  me  of  you.  He  says  that 

you  are  a  patriotic ." 

More  than  by  the  tone  was  Andr£-Louis  startled  by  the 
obscenities  with  which  the  Colossus  did  not  hesitate  to  inter- 
lard his  first  speech  to  a  total  stranger.  He  laughed  out- 
right. There  was  nothing  else  to  do. 

"If  he  has  told  you  that,  he  has  told  you  more  than  the 
truth!  I  am  a  patriot.  The  rest  my  modesty  compels  me 
to  disavow." 

"You're  a  joker  too,  it  seems,"  roared  the  other,  but  he 
laughed  nevertheless,  and  the  volume  of  it  shook  the  win- 
dows. "There's  no  offence  in  me.  I  am  like  that." 

"What  a  pity,"  said  Andre-Louis. 

It  disconcerted  the  king  of  the  markets.  "Eh?  what's 
this,  Chapelier?  Does  he  give  himself  airs,  your  friend 
here?" 

The  spruce  Breton,  a  very  petit-maitre  in  appearance 
by  contrast  with  his  companion,  but  nevertheless  of  a  down- 
right manner  quite  equal  to  Danton's  in  brutality,  though 
dispensing  with  the  emphasis  of  foulness,  shrugged  as  he 
answered  him: 

"  It  is  merely  that  he  does  n't  like  your  manners,  which  is 
not  at  all  surprising.  They  are  execrable." 

"Ah,  bah!  You  are  all  like  that,  you Bretons.  Let's 

come  to  business.  You'll  have  heard  what  took  place  in 
the  Assembly  yesterday?  You  have  n't?  My  God,  where 
do  you  live?  Have  you  heard  that  this  scoundrel  who  calls 
himself  King  of  France  gave  passage  across  French  soil  the 
other  day  to  Austrian  troops  going  to  crush  those  who  fight 


282  The  Sword 


for  liberty  in  Belgium?  Have  you  heard  that,  by  any 
chance?" 

"Yes,"  said  Andr6-Louis  coldly,  masking  his  irritation 
before  the  other's  hectoring  manner.  "  I  have  heard  that." 

"Oh!  And  what  do  you  think  of  it?"  Arms  akimbo,  the 
Colossus  towered  above  him. 

Andr6-Louis  turned  aside  to  Le  Chapelier. 

"I  don't  think  I  understand.  Have  you  brought  this 
gentleman  here  to  examine  my  conscience?" 

"Name  of  a  name!  He's  prickly  as  a porcupine!" 

Danton  protested. 

"No,  no."  Le  Chapelier  was  conciliatory,  seeking  to  pro- 
vide an  antidote  to  the  irritant  administered  by  his  com- 
panion. "We  require  your  help,  Andre.  Danton  here 
thinks  that  you  are  the  very  man  for  us.  Listen  now  .  .  ." 

"That's  it.  You  tell  him,"  Danton  agreed.  "You  both 

talk  the  same  mincing sort  of  French.  He'll  probably 

understand  you." 

Le  Chapelier  went  on  without  heeding  the  interruption. 

"This  violation  by  the  King  of  the  obvious  rights  of  a 
country  engaged  in  framing  a  constitution  that  shall  make 
it  free  has  shattered  every  philanthropic  illusion  we  still 
cherished.  There  are  those  who  go  so  far  as  to  proclaim  the 
King  the  vowed  enemy  of  France.  But  that,  of  course,  is 
excessive." 

"Who  says  so?"  blazed  Danton,  and  swore  horribly  by 
way  of  conveying  his  total  disagreement. 

Le  Chapelier  waved  him  into  silence,  and  proceeded. 

"Anyhow,  the  matter  has  been  more  than  enough,  added 
to  all  the  rest,  to  set  us  by  the  ears  again  in  the  Assembly. 
It  is  open  war  between  the  Third  Estate  and  the  Privi- 
leged." 

"Was  it  ever  anything  else?" 

"Perhaps  not;  but  it  has  assumed  a  new  character. 
You  '11  have  heard  of  the  duel  between  Lameth  and  the  Due 
de  Castries?" 

"A  trifling  affair." 


Politicians  283 


"  In  its  results.  But  it  might  have  been  far  other.  Mira- 
beau  is  challenged  and  insulted  now  at  every  sitting.  But 
he  goes  his  way,  cold-bloodedly  wise.  Others  are  not  so 
circumspect ;  they  meet  insult  with  insult,  blow  with  blow, 
and  blood  is  being  shed  in  private  duels.  The  thing  is  re- 
duced by  these  swordsmen  of  the  nobility  to  a  system." 

Andr£-Louis  nodded.  He  was  thinking  of  Philippe  de 
Vilmorin.  "Yes,"  he  said,  "it  is  an  old  trick  of  theirs.  It 
is  so  simple  and  direct  —  like  themselves.  I  wonder  only 
that  they  did  n't  hit  upon  this  system  sooner.  In  the  early 
days  of  the  States  General,  at  Versailles,  it  might  have  had 
a  better  effect.  Now,  it  comes  a  little  late." 

"But  they  mean  to  make  up  for  lost  time  —  sacred 
name!"  cried  Danton.  "Challenges  are  flying  right  and 
left  between  these  bully-swordsmen,  these  spadassinicides, 
and  poor  devils  of  the  robe  who  have  never  learnt  to  fence 

with  anything  but  a  quill.  It's  just murder.  Yet  if  I 

were  to  go  amongst  messieurs  les  nobles  and  crunch  an 
addled  head  or  two  with  this  stick  of  mine,  snap  a  few  aris- 
tocratic necks  between  these  fingers  which  the  good  God  has 
given  me  for  the  purpose,  the  law  would  send  me  to  atone 
upon  the  gallows.  This  in  a  land  that  is  striving  after  lib- 
erty. Why,  Dieu  me  damne!  I  am  not  even  allowed  to 
keep  my  hat  on  in  the  theatre.  But  they  —  these s !" 

"He  is  right,"  said  Le  Chapelier.  "The  thing  has  become 
unendurable,  insufferable.  Two  days  ago  M.  d'Ambly 
threatened  Mirabeau  with  his  cane  before  the  whole  As- 
sembly. Yesterday  M.  de  Faussigny  leapt  up  and  harangued 
his  order  by  inviting  murder.  'Why  don't  we  fall  on  these 
scoundrels,  sword  in  hand?'  he  asked.  Those  were  his  very 
words:  'Why  don't  we  fall  on  these  scoundrels,  sword  in 
hand.' " 

"It  is  so  much  simpler  than  lawmaking,"  said  Andr6- 
Louis. 

"Lagron,  the  deputy  from  Ancenis  in  the  Loire,  said 
something  that  we  did  not  hear  in  answer.  As  he  was  leav- 
ing the  Manege  one  of  these  bullies  grossly  insulted  him. 


284  The  Sword 


Lagron  no  more  than  used  his  elbow  to  push  past  when  the 
fellow  cried  out  that  he  had  been  struck,  and  issued  his 
challenge.  They  fought  this  morning  early  in  the  Champs 
filysdes,  and  Lagron  was  killed,  run  through  the  stomach 
deliberately  by  a  man  who  fought  like  a  fencing-master, 
and  poor  Lagron  did  not  even  own  a  sword.  He  had  to  bor- 
row one  to  go  to  the  assignation." 

Andr6-Louis  —  his  mind  ever  on  Vilmorin,  whose  case 
was  here  repeated,  even  to  the  details  —  was  swept  by  a 
gust  of  passion.  He  clenched  his  hands,  and  his  jaws  set. 
Danton's  little  eyes  observed  him  keenly. 

"Well?  And  what  do  you  think  of  that?  Noblesse  oblige, 

eh?  The  thing  is  we  must  oblige  them  too,  these s.  We 

must  pay  them  back  in  the  same  coin;  meet  them  with 
the  same  weapons.  Abolish  them;  tumble  these  assassi- 
nateurs  into  the  abyss  of  nothingness  by  the  same  means." 

"But  how?" 

"How?  Name  of  God!  Have  n't  I  said  it?" 

"That  is  where  we  require  your  help,"  Le  Chapelier  put 
in.  "There  must  be  men  of  patriotic  feeling  among  the  more 
advanced  of  your  pupils.  M.  Danton's  idea  is  that  a  little 
band  of  these  —  say  a  half-dozen,  with  yourself  at  their 
head  —  might  read  these  bullies  a  sharp  lesson." 

Andre-Louis  frowned. 

"And  how,  precisely,  had  M.  Dan  ton  thought  that  this 
might  be  done?" 

M.  Danton  spoke  for  himself,  vehemently. 

"Why,  thus:  We  post  you  in  the  Manege,  at  the  hour 
when  the  Assembly  is  rising.  We  point  out  the  six  leading 
phlebotomists,  and  let  you  loose  to  insult  them  before  they 
have  time  to  insult  any  of  the  representatives.  Then  to- 
morrow morning,  six phlebotomists  themselves  phle- 
botomized secundum  artem.  That  will  give  the  others 
something  to  think  about.  It  will  give  them  a  great  deal  to 
think  about,  by !  If  necessary  the  dose  may  be  re- 
peated to  ensure  a  cure.  If  you  kill  the s,  so  much 

the  better." 


Politicians  285 


He  paused,  his  sallow  face  flushed  with  the  enthusiasm 
of  his  idea.  Andre-Louis  stared  at  him  inscrutably. 

"Well,  what  do  you  say  to  that?" 

"That  it  is  most  ingenious."  And  Andr6-Louis  turned 
aside  to  look  out  of  the  window. 

"And  is  that  all  you  think  of  it?" 

"I  will  not  tell  you  what  else  I  think  of  it  because  you 
probably  would  not  understand.  For  you,  M.  Danton,  there 
is  at  least  this  excuse  that  you  did  not  know  me.  But  you, 
Isaac  —  to  bring  this  gentleman  here  with  such  a  proposal ! " 

Le  Chapelier  was  overwhelmed  in  confusion.  "I  confess 
I  hesitated,"  he  apologized.  "But  M.  Danton  would  not 
take  my  word  for  it  that  the  proposal  might  not  be  to  your 
taste." 

"I  would  not!"  Danton  broke  in,  bellowing.  He  swung 
upon  Le  Chapelier,  brandishing  his  great  arms.  "You  told 
me  monsieur  was  a  patriot.  Patriotism  knows  no  scruples. 
You  call  this  mincing  dancing-master  a  patriot?" 

"Would  you,  monsieur,  out  of  patriotism  consent  to  be- 
come an  assassin?" 

"Of  course  I  would.  Haven't  I  told  you  so?  Haven't 
I  told  you  that  I  would  gladly  go  among  them  with  my  club, 
and  crack  them  like  so  many fleas?" 

"Why  not,  then?" 

"Why  not?  Because  I  should  get  myself  hanged.  Have 
n't  I  said  so?" 

"But  what  of  that  —  being  a  patriot?  Why  not,  like 
another  Curtius,  jump  into  the  gulf,  since  you  believe  that 
your  country  would  benefit  by  your  death?" 

M.  Danton  showed  signs  of  exasperation.  "Because  my 
country  will  benefit  more  by  my  life." 

"Permit  me,  monsieur,  to  suffer  from  a  similar  vanity." 

"You?  But  where  would  be  the  danger  to  you?  You 
would  do  your  work  under  the  cloak  of  duelling  —  as  they 
do." 

"Have  you  reflected,  monsieur,  that  the  law  will  hardly 
regard  a  fencing- master  who  kills  his  opponent  as  an  ordinary 


286  The  Sword 


combatant,  particularly  if  it  can  be  shown  that  the  fencing- 
master  himself  provoked  the  attack?" 

"So!  Name  of  a  name!"  M.  Danton  blew  out  his  cheeks 
and  delivered  himself  with  withering  scorn.  "It  comes  to 
this,  then:  you  are  afraid!" 

"You  may  think  so  if  you  choose  —  that  I  am  afraid  to 
do  slyly  and  treacherously  that  which  a  thrasonical  patriot 
like  yourself  is  afraid  of  doing  frankly  and  openly.  I  have 
other  reasons.  But  that  one  should  suffice  you." 

Danton  gasped.  Then  he  swore  more  amazingly  and 
variedly  than  ever. 

"By !  you  are  right,"  he  admitted,  to  Andre-Louis' 

amazement.  "  You  are  right,  and  I  am  wrong.  I  am  as  bad 
a  patriot  as  you  are,  and  I  am  a  coward  as  well."  And  he 
invoked  the  whole  Pantheon  to  witness  his  self-denuncia- 
tion. "Only,  you  see,  I  count  for  something:  and  if  they 
take  me  and  hang  me,  why,  there  it  is !  Monsieur,  we  must 
find  some  other  way.  Forgive  the  intrusion.  Adieu!"  He 
held  out  his  enormous  hand. 

Le  Chapelier  stood  hesitating,  crestfallen. 

"You  understand,  Andre?   I  am  sorry  that  ..." 

"Say  no  more,  please.  Come  and  see  me  soon  again.  I 
would  press  you  to  remain,  but  it  is  striking  nine,  and  the 
first  of  my  pupils  is  about  to  arrive." 

"Nor  would  I  permit  it,"  said  Danton.  "Between  us  we 
must  resolve  the  riddle  of  how  to  extinguish  M.  de  La  Tour 
d'Azyr  and  his  friends." 

"Who?" 

Sharp  as  a  pistol-shot  came  that  question,  as  Danton  was 
turning  away.  The  tone  of  it  brought  him  up  short.  He 
turned  again,  Le  Chapelier  with  him. 

"I  said  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr." 

"What  has  he  to  do  with  the  proposal  you  were  making 
me?" 

"He?  Why,  he  is  the  phlebotomist  in  chief." 

And  Le  Chapelier  added.    "It  is  he  who  killed  Lagron." 

"Not  a  friend  of  yours,  is  he?"  wondered  Danton. 


Politicians  287 


"And  it  is  La  Tour  d'Azyr  you  desire  me  to  kill?"  asked 
Andre-Louis  very  slowly,  after  the  manner  of  one  whose 
thoughts  are  meanwhile  pondering  the  subject. 

"That's  it,"  said  Danton.  "And  not  a  job  for  a  prentice 
hand,  I  can  assure  you." 

"Ah,  but  this  alters  things,"  said  Andr6-Louis,  thinking 
aloud.  "  It  offers  a  great  temptation." 

"Why,  then  .  .  .  ?"  The  Colossus  took  a  step  towards  him 
again. 

"Wait!"  He  put  up  his  hand.  Then  with  chin  sunk  on 
his  breast,  he  paced  away  to  the  window,  musing. 

Le  Chapelier  and  Danton  exchanged  glances,  then  watched 
him,  waiting,  what  time  he  considered. 

At  first  he  almost  wondered  why  he  should  not  of  his  own 
accord  have  decided  upon  some  such  course  as  this  to  settle 
that  long-standing  account  of  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr.  What 
was  the  use  of  this  great  skill  in  fence  that  he  had  come  to 
acquire,  unless  he  could  turn  it  to  account  to  avenge  Vil- 
morin,  and  to  make  Aline  safe  from  the  lure  of  her  own  am- 
bition? It  would  be  an  easy  thing  to  seek  out  La  Tour 
d'Azyr,  put  a  mortal  affront  upon  him,  and  thus  bring  him 
to  the  point.  To-day  this  would  be  murder,  murder  as 
treacherous  as  that  which  La  Tour  d'Azyr  had  done  upon 
Philippe  de  Vilmorin;  for  to-day  the  old  positions  were  re- 
versed, and  it  was  Andr6-Louis  who  might  go  to  such  an 
assignation  without  a  doubt  of  the  issue.  It  was  a  moral  ob- 
stacle of  which  he  made  short  work.  But  there  remained 
the  legal  obstacle  he  had  expounded  to  Danton.  There  was 
still  a  law  in  France;  the  same  law  which  he  had  found  it  im- 
possible to  move  against  La  Tour  d'Azyr,  but  which  would 
move  briskly  enough  against  himself  in  like  case.  And  then, 
suddenly,  as  if  by  inspiration,  he  saw  the  way  —  a  way 
which  if  adopted  would  probably  bring  La  Tour  d'Azyr  to  a 
poetic  justice,  bring  him,  insolent,  confident,  to  thrust  himself 
upon  Andr6-Louis'  sword,  with  all  the  odium  of  provoca- 
tion on  his  own  side. 

He  turned  to  them  again,  and  they  saw  that  he  was  very 
pale,  that  his  great  dark  eyes  glowed  oddly. 


288  The  Sword 


"There  will  probably  be  some  difficulty  in  finding  a  sup- 
plant for  this  poor  Lagron,"  he  said.  "Our  fellow-country- 
men will  be  none  so  eager  to  offer  themselves  to  the  swords 
of  Privilege." 

"True  enough,"  said  Le  Chapelier  gloomily;  and  then,  as 
if  suddenly  leaping  to  the  thing  in  Andre-Louis'  mind: 
"Andre!"  he  cried.  "Would  you  ...  ?" 

"  It  is  what  I  was  considering.  It  would  give  me  a  legiti- 
mate place  in  the  Assembly.  If  your  Tour  d'Azyrs  choose  to 
seek  me  out  then,  why,  their  blood  be  upon  their  own  heads. 
I  shall  certainly  do  nothing  to  discourage  them."  He  smiled 
curiously.  "  I  am  just  a  rascal  who  tries  to  be  honest  —  Scara- 
mouche  always,  in  fact;  a  creature  of  sophistries.  Do  you 
think  that  Ancenis  would  have  me  for  its  representative?" 

"Will  it  have  Omnes  Omnibus  for  its  representative?" 
Le  Chapelier  was  laughing,  his  countenance  eager.  "An- 
cenis will  be  convulsed  with  pride.  It  is  not  Rennes  or 
Nantes,  as  it  might  have  been  had  you  wished  it.  But  it 
gives  you  a  voice  for  Brittany." 

"I  should  have  to  go  to  Ancenis  .  .  .  ?" 

"No  need  at  all.  A  letter  from  me  to  the  Municipality, 
and  the  Municipality  will  confirm  you  at  once.  No  need  to 
move  from  here.  In  a  fortnight  at  most  the  thing  can  be 
accomplished.  It  is  settled,  then?" 

Andre-Louis  considered  yet  a  moment.  There  was  his 
academy.  But  he  could  make  arrangements  with  Le  Due 
and  Galoche  to  carry  it  on  for  him  whilst  himself  directing 
and  advising.  Le  Due,  after  all,  was  become  a  thoroughly 
efficient  master,  and  he  was  a  trustworthy  fellow.  At  need 
a  third  assistant  could  be  engaged. 

"Be  it  so,"  he  said  at  last. 

Le  Chapelier  clasped  hands  with  him  and  became  con- 
gratulatorily  voluble,  until  interrupted  by  the  red-coated 
giant  at  the  door. 

"What  exactly  does  it  mean  to  our  business,  anyway?" 
he  asked.  "Does  it  mean  that  when  you  are  a  representa- 
tive you  will  not  scruple  to  skewer  M.  le  Marquis?" 


Politicians  289 


"  If  M.  le  Marquis  should  offer  himself  to  be  skewered,  as 
he  no  doubt  will." 

"I  perceive  the  distinction,"  said  M.  Danton,  and 
sneered.  "You've  an  ingenious  mind."  He  turned  to  Le 
Chapelier.  "What  did  you  say  he  was  to  begin  with  —  a 
lawyer,  was  n't  it?" 

"Yes,  I  was  a  lawyer,  and  afterwards  a  mountebank." 

"And  this  is  the  result!" 

"As  you  say.  And  do  you  know  that  we  are  after  all  not 
so  dissimilar,  you  and  I?" 

"What?" 

"Once  like  you  I  went  about  inciting  other  people  to  go 
and  kill  the  man  I  wanted  dead.  You  '11  say  I  was  a  cow- 
ard, of  course." 

Le  Chapelier  prepared  to  slip  between  them  as  the  clouds 
gathered  on  the  giant's  brow.  Then  these  were  dispelled 
again,  and  the  great  laugh  vibrated  through  the  long  room. 

"You've  touched  me  for  the  second  time,  and  in  the 
same  place.  Oh,  you  can  fence,  my  lad.  We  should  be 
friends.  Rue  des  Cordeliers  is  my  address.  Any scoun- 
drel will  tell  you  where  Danton  lodges.  Desmoulins  lives 
underneath.  Come  and  visit  us  one  evening.  There's  al- 
ways a  bottle  for  a  friend." 


CHAPTER  VII 
THE  SPADASSINICIDES 

AFTER  an  absence  of  rather  more  than  a  week,  M.  le  Mar- 
quis de  La  Tour  d'Azyr  was  back  in  his  place  on  the  C6t£ 
Droit  of  the  National  Assembly.  Properly  speaking,  we 
should  already  at  this  date  allude  to  him  as  the  ci-devant 
Marquis  de  La  Tour  dAzyr,  for  the  time  was  September  of 
1790,  two  months  after  the  passing  —  on  the  motion  of 
that  downright  Breton  leveller,  Le  Chapelier  —  of  the 
decree  that  nobility  should  no  more  be  hereditary  than 
infamy;  that  just  as  the  brand  of  the  gallows  must  not  de- 
file the  possibly  worthy  descendants  of  one  who  had  been 
convicted  of  evil,  neither  should  the  blazon  advertising 
achievement  glorify  the  possibly  unworthy  descendants  of 
one  who  had  proved  himself  good.  And  so  the  decree  had 
been  passed  abolishing  hereditary  nobility  and  consigning 
family  escutcheons  to  the  rubbish-heap  of  things  no  longer 
to  be  tolerated  by  an  enlightened  generation  of  philoso- 
phers. M.  le  Comte  de  Lafayette,  who  had  supported  the 
motion,  left  the  Assembly  as  plain  M.  Motier,  the  great 
tribune  Count  Mirabeau  became  plain  M.  Riquetti,  and 
M.  le  Marquis  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr  just  simple  M.  Lesarques. 
The  thing  was  done  in  one  of  those  exaltations  produced  by 
the  approach  of  the  great  National  Festival  of  the  Champ 
de  Mars,  and  no  doubt  it  was  thoroughly  repented  on  the 
morrow  by  those  who  had  lent  themselves  to  it.  Thus,  al- 
though law  by  now,  it  was  a  law  that  no  one  troubled  just 
yet  to  enforce. 

That,  however,  is  by  the  way.  The  time,  as  I  have  said, 
was  September,  the  day  dull  and  showery,  and  some  of  the 
damp  and  gloom  of  it  seemed  to  have  penetrated  the  long 
Hall  of  the  Manege,  where  on  their  eight  rows  of  green 


The  Spadassinicides  291 

benches  elliptically  arranged  in  ascending  tiers  about  the 
space  known  as  La  Piste,  sat  some  eight  or  nine  hundred  of 
the  representatives  of  the  three  orders  that  composed  the 
nation. 

The  matter  under  debate  by  the  constitution-builders 
was  whether  the  deliberating  body  to  succeed  the  Constitu- 
ent Assembly  should  work  in  conjunction  with  the  King, 
whether  it  should  be  periodic  or  permanent,  whether  it 
should  govern  by  two  chambers  or  by  one. 

The  Abbe  Maury,  son  of  a  cobbler,  and  therefore  in  these 
days  of  antitheses  orator-in-chief  of  the  party  of  the  Right  — 
the  Blacks,  as  those  who  fought  Privilege's  losing  battles 
were  known  —  was  in  the  tribune.  He  appeared  to  be  urg- 
ing the  adoption  of  a  two-chambers  system  framed  on  the 
English  model.  He  was,  if  anything,  more  long-winded  and 
prosy  even  than  his  habit;  his  arguments  assumed  more  and 
more  the  form  of  a  sermon ;  the  tribune  of  the  National  As- 
sembly became  more  and  more  like  a  pulpit;  but  the  mem- 
bers, conversely,  less  and  less  like  a  congregation.  They 
grew  restive  under  that  steady  flow  of  pompous  verbiage, 
and  it  was  in  vain  that  the  four  ushers  in  black  satin  breeches 
and  carefully  powdered  heads.'chain  of  office  on  their  breasts, 
gilded  sword  at  their  sides,  circulated  in  the  Piste,  clapping 
their  hands,  and  hissing  — 
"Silence!  En  place!" 

Equally  vain  was  the  intermittent  ringing  of  the  bell  by 
the  president  at  his  green-covered  table  facing  the  tribune. 
The  Abb6,  Maury  had  talked  too  long,  and  for  some  time 
had  failed  to  interest  the  members.  Realizing  it  at  last,  he 
ceased,  whereupon  the  hum  of  conversation  became  gen- 
eral. And  then  it  fell  abruptly.  There  was  a  silence  of  ex- 
pectancy, and  a  turning  of  heads,  a  craning  of  necks.  Even 
the  group  of  secretaries  at  the  round  table  below  the  presi- 
dent's dais  roused  themselves  from  their  usual  apathy  to 
consider  this  young  man  who  was  mounting  the  tribune  of 
the  Assembly  for  the  first  time. 

"M.  Andr£-Louis  Moreau,  deputy  suppliant,  vice  Em- 


292  The  Sword 


manuel  Lagron,  deceased,  for  Ancenis  in  the  Department 
of  the  Loire." 

M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr  shook  himself  out  of  the  gloomy 
abstraction  in  which  he  had  sat.  The  successor  of  the  deputy 
he  had  slain  must,  in  any  event,  be  an  object  of  grim  inter- 
est to  him.  You  conceive  how  that  interest  was  heightened 
when  he  heard  him  named,  when,  looking  across,  he  recog- 
nized indeed  in  this  Andr6-Louis  Moreau  the  young  scoun- 
drel who  was  continually  crossing  his  path,  continually  ex- 
erting against  him  a  deep-moving,  sinister  influence  to  make 
him  regret  that  he  should  have  spared  his  life  that  day  at 
Gavrillac  two  years  ago.  That  he  should  thus  have  stepped 
into  the  shoes  of  Lagron  seemed  to  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr 
too  apt  for  mere  coincidence,  a  direct  challenge  in  itself. 

He  looked  at  the  young  man  in  wonder  rather  than  in 
anger,  and  looking  at  him  he  was  filled  by  a  vague,  almost  a 
premonitory,  uneasiness. 

At  the  very  outset,  the  presence  which  in  itself  he  con- 
ceived to  be  a  challenge  was  to  demonstrate  itself  for  this  in 
no  equivocal  terms. 

"I  come  before  you,"  Andr6-Louis  began,  "as  a  deputy- 
suppliant  to  fill  the  place  of  one  who  was  murdered  some 
three  weeks  ago." 

It  was  a  challenging  opening  that  instantly  provoked  an 
indignant  outcry  from  the  Blacks.  Andr£-Louis  paused, 
and  looked  at  them,  smiling  a  little,  a  singularly,  self-confi- 
dent young  man. 

"The  gentlemen  of  the  Right,  M.  le  President,  do  not 
appear  to  like  my  words.  But  that  is  not  surprising.  The 
gentlemen  of  the  Right  notoriously  do  not  like  the  truth." 

This  time  there  was  uproar.  The  members  of  the  Left 
roared  with  laughter,  those  of  the  Right  thundered  menac- 
ingly. The  ushers  circulated  at  a  pace  beyond  their  usual, 
agitated  themselves,  clapped  their  hands,  and  called  in  vain 
for  silence. 

The  President  rang  his  bell. 

Above  the  general  din  came  the  voice  of  La  Tour  d'Azyr, 


The  Spadassinicides  293 

who  had  half-risen  from  his  seat:    "Mountebank!   This  is 
not  the  theatre!" 

"No,  monsieur,  it  is  becoming  a  hunting-ground  for 
bully-swordsmen,"  was  the  answer,  and  the  uproar  grew. 

The  deputy-suppliant  looked  round  and  waited.  Near 
at  hand  he  met  the  encouraging  grin  of  Le  Chapelier,  and 
the  quiet,  approving  smile  of  Kersain,  another  Breton 
deputy  of  his  acquaintance.  A  little  farther  off  he  saw  the 
great  head  of  Mirabeau  thrown  back,  the  great  eyes  re- 
garding him  from  under  a  frown  in  a  sort  of  wonder,  and 
yonder,  among  all  that  moving  sea  of  faces,  the  sallow  coun- 
tenance of  the  Arras'  lawyer  Robespierre  —  or  de  Robes- 
pierre, as  the  little  snob  now  called  himself,  having  assumed 
the  aristocratic  particle  as  the  prerogative  of  a  man  of  his 
distinction  in  the  councils  of  his  country.  With  his  tip- 
tilted  nose  in  the  air,  his  carefully  curled  head  on  one  side, 
the  deputy  for  Arras  was  observing  Andr£-Louis  atten- 
tively. The  horn-rimmed  spectacles  he  used  for  reading 
were  thrust  up  on  to  his  pale  forehead,  and  it  was  through  a 
levelled  spy-glass  that  he  considered  the  speaker,  his  thin- 
lipped  mouth  stretched  a  little  in  that  tiger-cat  smile  that 
was  afterwards  to  become  so  famous  and  so  feared. 

Gradually  the  uproar  wore  itself  out,  and  diminished  so 
that  at  last  the  President  could  make  himself  heard.  Lean- 
ing forward,  he  gravely  addressed  the  young  man  in  the 
tribune: 

"Monsieur,  if  you  wish  to  be  heard,  let  me  beg  of  you 
not  to  be  provocative  in  your  language."  And  then  to  the 
others:  "Messieurs,  if  we  are  to  proceed,  I  beg  that  you  will 
restrain  your  feelings  until  the  deputy-suppleant  has  con- 
cluded his  discourse." 

"I  shall  endeavour  to  obey, M.  le  President,  leaving  prov- 
ocation to  the  gentlemen  of  the  Right.  If  the  few  words 
I  have  used  so  far  have  been  provocative,  I  regret  it.  But 
it  was  necessary  that  I  should  refer  to  the  distinguished 
deputy  whose  place  I  come  so  unworthily  to  fill,  and  it 
was  unavoidable  that  I  should  refer  to  the  event  which  has 


294  The  Sword 


procured  us  this  sad  necessity.  The  deputy  Lagron  was  a  man 
of  singular  nobility  of  mind,  a  selfless,  dutiful,  zealous  man, 
inflamed  by  the  high  purpose  of  doing  his  duty  by  his 
electors  and  by  this  Assembly.  He  possessed  what  his  op- 
ponents would  call  a  dangerous  gift  of  eloquence." 

La  Tour  d'Azyr  writhed  at  the  well-known  phrase  —  his 
own  phrase  —  the  phrase  that  he  had  used  to  explain  his 
action  in  the  matter  of  Philippe  de  Vilmorin,  the  phrase 
that  from  time  to  time  had  been  cast  in  his  teeth  with  such 
vindictive  menace. 

And  then  the  crisp  voice  of  the  witty  Cazal6s,  that  very 
rapier  of  the  Privileged  party,  cut  sharply  into  the  speak- 
er's momentary  pause. 

"M.  le  President,"  he  asked  with  great  solemnity,  "has 
the  deputy-suppl6ant  mounted  the  tribune  for  the  purpose 
of  taking  part  in  the  debate  on  the  constitution  of  the  leg- 
islative assemblies,  or  for  the  purpose  of  pronouncing  a 
funeral  oration  upon  the  departed  deputy  Lagron?" 

This  time  it  was  the  Blacks  who  gave  way  to  mirth,  until 
checked  by  the  deputy-suppleant. 

"That  laughter  is  obscene!"  In  this  truly  Gallic  fashion 
he  flung  his  glove  into  the  face  of  Privilege,  determined,  you 
see,  upon  no  half  measures;  and  the  rippling  laughter  per- 
ished on  the  instant  quenched  in  speechless  fury. 

Solemnly  he  proceeded. 

"You  all  know  how  Lagron  died.  To  refer  to  his  death 
at  all  requires  courage,  to  laugh  in  referring  to  it  requires 
something  that  I  will  not  attempt  to  qualify.  If  I  have 
alluded  to  his  decease,  it  is  because  my  own  appearance 
among  you  seemed  to  render  some  such  allusion  necessary. 
It  is  mine  to  take  up  the  burden  which  he  set  down.  I  do 
not  pretend  that  I  have  the  strength,  the  courage,  or  the 
wisdom  of  Lagron;  but  with  every  ounce  of  such  strength 
and  courage  and  wisdom  as  I  possess  that  burden  will  I 
bear.  And  I  trust,  for  the  sake  of  those  who  might  attempt 
it,  that  the  means  taken  to  impose  silence  upon  that  elo- 
quent voice  will  not  be  taken  to  impose  silence  upon  mine." 


The  Spadassinicides  295 

There  was  a  faint  murmur  of  applause  from  the  Left,  a 
splutter  of  contemptuous  laughter  from  the  Right. 

"Rhodomont!"  a  voice  called  to  him. 

He  looked  in  the  direction  of  that  voice,  proceeding 
from  the  group  of  spadassins  amid  the  Blacks  across  the 
Piste,  and  he  smiled.  Inaudibly  his  lips  answered: 

"No,  my  friend  —  Scaramouche;  Scaramouche,  the  sub- 
tle, dangerous  fellow  who  goes  tortuously  to  his  ends." 
Aloud,  he  resumed:  "M.  le  President,  there  are  those  who 
will  not  understand  that  the  purpose  for  which  we  are  as- 
sembled here  is  the  making  of  laws  by  which  France  may  be 
equitably  governed,  by  which  France  may  be  lifted  out  of 
the  morass  of  bankruptcy  into  which  she  is  in  danger  of 
sinking.  For  there  are  some  who  want,  it  seems,  not  laws, 
but  blood;  I  solemnly  warn  them  that  this  blood  will  end 
by  choking  them,  if  they  do  not  learn  in  time  to  discard 
force  and  allow  reason  to  prevail." 

Again  in  that  phrase  there  was  something  that  stirred  a 
memory  in  La  Tour  d'Azyr.  He  turned  in  the  fresh  uproar 
to  speak  to  his  cousin  Chabrillane  who  sat  beside  him. 

"A  daring  rogue,  this  bastard  of  Gavrillac's,"  said  he. 

Chabrillane  looked  at  him  with  gleaming  eyes,  his  face 
white  with  anger. 

"Let  him  talk  himself  out.  I  don't  think  he  will  be  heard 
again  after  to-day.  Leave  this  to  me." 

Hardly  could  La  Tour  have  told  you  why,  but  he  sank 
back  in  his  seat  with  a  sense  of  relief.  He  had  been  telling 
himself  that  here  was  matter  demanding  action,  a  challenge 
that  he  must  take  up.  But  despite  his  rage  he  felt  a  singular 
unwillingness.  This  fellow  had  a  trick  of  reminding  him, 
he  supposed,  too  unpleasantly  of  that  young  abbe  done  to 
death  in  the  garden  behind  the  "Breton  Arm6"  atGavrillac. 
Not  that  the  death  of  Philippe  de  Vilmorin  lay  heavily 
upon  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr's  conscience.  He  had  ac- 
counted himself  fully  justified  of  his  action.  It  was  that 
the  whole  thing  as  his  memory  revived  it  for  him  made 
an  unpleasant  picture:  that  distraught  boy  kneeling  over 


296  The  Sword 


the  bleeding  body  of  the  friend  he  had  loved,  and  almost 
begging  to  be  slain  with  him,  dubbing  the  Marquis  murderer 
and  coward  to  incite  him. 

Meanwhile,  leaving  now  the  subject  of  the  death  of  Lagron, 
the  deputy-suppleant  had  at  last  brought  himself  into  order, 
and  was  speaking  upon  the  question  under  debate.  He  con- 
tributed nothing  of  value  to  it;  he  urged  nothing  definite. 
His  speech  on  the  subject  was  very  brief  —  that  being  the 
pretext  and  not  the  purpose  for  which  he  had  ascended  the 
tribune. 

When  later  he  was  leaving  the  hall  at  the  end  of  the  sit- 
ting, with  Le  Chapelier  at  his  side,  he  found  himself  densely 
surrounded  by  deputies  as  by  a  body-guard.  Most  of  them 
were  Bretons,  who  aimed  at  screening  him  from  the  pro- 
vocations which  his  own  provocative  words  in  the  Assembly 
could  not  fail  to  bring  down  upon  his  head.  For  a  moment 
the  massive  form  of  Mirabeau  brought  up  alongside  of  him. 

"Felicitations,  M.  Moreau,"  said  the  great  man.  "You 
acquitted  yourself  very  well.  They  will  want  your  blood, 
no  doubt.  But  be  discreet,  monsieur,  if  I  may  presume  to 
advise  you,  and  do  not  allow  yourself  to  be  misled  by  any 
false  sense  of  quixotry.  Ignore  their  challenges.  I  do  so  my- 
self. I  place  each  challenger  upon  my  list.  There  are  some 
fifty  there  already,  and  there  they  will  remain.  Refuse  them 
what  they  are  pleased  to  call  satisfaction,  and  all  will  be 
well."  Andre-Louis  smiled  and  sighed.  "  It  requires  cour- 
age," said  the  hypocrite. 

"  Of  course  it  does.  But  you  would  appear  to  have  plenty." 

"Hardly  enough,  perhaps.  But  I  shall  do  my  best." 

They  had  come  through  the  vestibule,  and  although  this 
was  lined  with  eager  Blacks  waiting  for  the  young  man  who 
had  insulted  them  so  flagrantly  from  the  rostrum,  Andre- 
Louis'  body-guard  had  prevented  any  of  them  from  reaching 
him. 

Emerging  now  into  the  open,  under  the  great  awning  at 
the  head  of  the  Carriere,  erected  to  enable  carriages  to  reach 
the  door  under  cover,  those  in  front  of  him  dispersed  a  little, 


The  Spadassinicides  297 

and  there  was  a  moment  as  he  reached  the  limit  of  the  awn- 
ing when  his  front  was  entirely  uncovered.  Outside  the 
rain  was  falling  heavily,  churning  the  ground  into  thick  mud, 
and  for  a  moment  Andre-Louis,  with  Le  Chapelier  ever  at 
his  side,  stood  hesitating  to  step  out  into  the  deluge. 

The  watchful  Chabrillane  had  seen  his  chance,  and  by  a 
detour  that  took  him  momentarily  out  into  the  rain,  he  came 
face  to  face  with  the  too-daring  young  Breton.  Rudely, 
violently,  he  thrust  Andre-Louis  back,  as  if  to  make  room  for 
himself  under  the  shelter. 

Not  for  a  second  was  Andre-Louis  under  any  delusion  as 
to  the  man's  deliberate  purpose,  nor  were  those  who  stood 
near  him,  who  made  a  belated  and  ineffectual  attempt  to 
close  about  him.  He  was  grievously  disappointed.  It  was 
not  Chabrillane  he  had  been  expecting.  His  disappointment 
was  reflected  on  his  countenance,  to  be  mistaken  for  some- 
thing very  different  by  the  arrogant  Chevalier. 

But  if  Chabrillane  was  the  man  appointed  to  deal  with 
him,  he  would  make  the  best  of  it. 

"  I  think  you  are  pushing  against  me,  monsieur,"  he  said, 
very  civilly,  and  with  elbow  and  shoulder  he  thrust  M.  de 
Chabrillane  back  into  the  rain. 

"I  desire  to  take  shelter,  monsieur,"  the  Chevalier  hec- 
tored. 

"You  may  do  so  without  standing  on  my  feet.  I  have  a 
prejudice  against  any  one  standing  on  my  feet.  My  feet  are 
very  tender.  Perhaps  you  did  not  know  it,  monsieur.  Please 
say  no  more." 

"Why,  I  wasn't  speaking,  you.  lout!"  exclaimed  the 
Chevalier,  slightly  discomposed. 

"Were  you  not?  I  thought  perhaps  you  were  about  to 
apologize." 

"Apologize?"  Chabrillane  laughed.  "To  you!  Do  you 
know  that  you  are  amusing?  "  He  stepped  under  the  awning 
for  the  second  time,  and  again  in  view  of  all  thrust  Andr£- 
Louis  rudely  back. 

"Ahi!"  cried  Andre-Louis,  with  a  grimace.    "You  hurt 


298  The  Sword 


me,  monsieur.  I  have  told  you  not  to  push  against  me." 
He  raised  his  voice  that  all  might  hear  him,  and  once  more 
impelled  M.  de  Chabrillane  back  into  the  rain. 

Now,  for  all  his  slenderness,  his  assiduous  daily  sword- 
practice  had  given  Andre-Louis  an  arm  of  iron.  Also  he  threw 
his  weight  into  the  thrust.  His  assailant  reeled  backwards  a 
few  steps,  and  then  his  heel  struck  a  baulk  of  timber  left  on 
the  ground  by  some  workmen  that  morning,  and  he  sat  down 
suddenly  in  the  mud. 

A  roar  of  laughter  rose  from  all  who  witnessed  the  fine 
gentleman's  downfall.  He  rose,  mud-bespattered,  in  a  fury, 
and  in  that  fury  sprang  at  Andre-Louis. 

Andre-Louis  had  made  him  ridiculous,  which  was  alto- 
gether unforgivable. 

"You  shall  meet  me  for  this ! "  he  spluttered.  " I  shall  kill 
you  for  it." 

His  inflamed  face  was  within  a  foot  of  Andre-Louis'. 
Andre-Louis  laughed.  In  the  silence  everybody  heard  the 
laugh  and  the  words  that  followed. 

"Oh,  is  that  what  you  wanted?  But  why  did  n't  you  say 
so  before?  You  would  have  spared  me  the  trouble  of  knock- 
ing you  down.  I  thought  gentlemen  of  your  profession  in- 
variably conducted  these  affairs  with  decency,  decorum, 
and  a  certain  grace.  Had  you  done  so,  you  might  have 
saved  your  breeches." 

"How  soon  shall  we  settle  this?"  snapped  Chabrillane, 
livid  with  very  real  fury. 

"Whenever  you  please,  monsieur.  It  is  for  you  to  say 
when  it  will  suit  your  convenience  to  kill  me.  I  think  that 
was  the  intention  you  announced,  was  it  not?"  Andre- 
Louis  was  suavity  itself. 

"To-morrow  morning,  in  the  Bois.  Perhaps  you  will  bring 
a  friend." 

"Certainly,  monsieur.  To-morrow  morning,  then.  I  hope 
we  shall  have  fine  weather.  I  detest  the  rain." 

Chabrillane  looked  at  him  almost  with  amazement. 
Andre-Louis  smiled  pleasantly. 


The  Spadassinicides  299 

"Don't  let  me  detain  you  now,  monsieur.  We  quite  under- 
stand each  other.  I  shall  be  in  the  Bois  at  nine  o'clock  to- 
morrow morning." 

"That  is  too  late  for  me,  monsieur." 

"Any  other  hour  would  be  too  early  for  me.  I  do  not  like 
to  have  my  habits  disturbed.  Nine  o'clock  or  not  at  all,  as 
you  please." 

"But  I  must  be  at  the  Assembly  at  nine,  for  the  morning 
session." 

"I  am  afraid,  monsieur,  you  will  have  to  kill  me  first, 
and  I  have  a  prejudice  against  being  killed  before  nine 
o'clock." 

Now  this  was  too  complete  a  subversion  of  the  usual  pro- 
cedure for  M.  de  Chabrillane's  stomach.  Here  was  a  rus- 
tic deputy  assuming  with  him  precisely  the  tone  of  sinister 
mockery  which  his  class  usually  dealt  out  to  their  victims  of 
the  Third  Estate.  And  to  heighten  the  irritation,  Andr£- 
Louis  —  the  actor,  Scaramouche  always  —  produced  his 
snuffbox,  and  proffered  it  with  a  steady  hand  to  Le  Chape- 
lier  before  helping  himself. 

Chabrillane,  it  seemed,  after  all  that  he  had  suffered,  was 
not  even  to  be  allowed  to  make  a  good  exit. 

"Very  well,  monsieur,"  he  said.  "Nine  o'clock,  then;  and 
we'll  see  if  you'll  talk  as  pertly  afterwards." 

On  that  he  flung  away,  before  the  jeers  of  the  provincial 
deputies.  Nor  did  it  soothe  his  rage  to  be  laughed  at  by 
urchins  all  the  way  down  the  Rue  Dauphine  because  of  the 
mud  and  filth  that  dripped  from  his  satin  breeches  and  the 
tails  of  his  elegant,  striped  coat. 

But  though  the  members  of  the  Third  had  jeered  on  the 
surface,  they  trembled  underneath  with  fear  and  indignation. 
It  was  too  much.  Lagron  killed  by  one  of  these  bullies,  and 
now  his  successor  challenged,  and  about  to  be  killed  by  an- 
other of  them  on  the  very  first  day  of  his  appearance  to  take 
the  dead  man's  place.  Several  came  now  to  implore  Andr6- 
Louis  not  to  go  to  the  Bois,  to  ignore  the  challenge  and  the 
whole  affair,  which  was  but  a  deliberate  attempt  to  put  him 


3OO  The  Sword 


out  of  the  way.  He  listened  seriously,  shook  his  head 
gloomily,  and  promised  at  last  to  think  it  over. 

He  was  in  his  seat  again  for  the  afternoon  session  as  if 
nothing  disturbed  him. 

But  in  the  morning,  when  the  Assembly  met,  his  place 
was  vacant,  and  so  was  M.  de  Chabrillane's.  Gloom  and 
resentment  sat  upon  the  members  of  the  Third,  and  brought 
a  more  than  usually  acrid  note  into  their  debates.  They  dis- 
approved of  the  rashness  of  the  new  recruit  to  their  body. 
Some  openly  condemned  his  lack  of  circumspection.  Very 
few  —  and  those  only  the  little  group  in  Le  Chapelier's 
confidence  —  ever  expected  to  see  him  again. 

It  was,  therefore,  as  much  in  amazement  as  in  relief  that 
at  a  few  minutes  after  ten  they  saw  him  enter,  calm,  com- 
posed, and  bland,  and  thread  his  way  to  his  seat.  The  speaker 
occupying  the  rostrum  at  that  moment  —  a  member  of  the 
Privileged  —  stopped  short  to  stare  in  incredulous  dismay. 
Here  was  something  that  he  could  not  understand  at  all. 
Then  from  somewhere,  to  satisfy  the  amazement  on  both 
sides  of  the  assembly,  a  voice  explained  the  phenomenon 
contemptuously. 

"  They  have  n't  met.  He  has  shirked  it  at  the  last  mo- 
ment." 

It  must  be  so,  thought  all;  the  mystification  ceased,  and 
men  were  settling  back  into  their  seats.  But  now,  having 
reached  his  place,  having  heard  the  voice  that  explained  the 
matter  to  the  universal  satisfaction,  Andr£-Louis  paused 
before  taking  his  seat.  He  felt  it  incumbent  upon  him  to  re- 
veal the  true  fact. 

"M.  le  Pr6sident,  my  excuses  for  my  late  arrival."  There 
was  no  necessity  for  this.  It  was  a  mere  piece  of  theatricality, 
such  as  it  was  not  in  Scaramouche's  nature  to  forgo.  "I 
have  been  detained  by  an  engagement  of  a  pressing  nature. 
I  bring  you  also  the  excuses  of  M.  de  Chabrillane.  He,  un- 
fortunately, will  be  permanently  absent  from  this  Assembly 
in  future." 

The  silence  was  complete.  Andr6-Louis  sat  down. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
THE  PALADIN  OF  THE  THIRD 

M.  LE  CHEVALIER  DE  CHABRILLANE  had  been  closely  con- 
nected, you  will  remember,  with  the  iniquitous  affair  in 
which  Philippe  de  Vilmorin  had  lost  his  life.  We  know 
enough  to  justify  a  surmise  that  he  had  not  merely  been  La 
Tour  d'Azyr's  second  in  the  encounter,  but  actually  an  in- 
stigator of  the  business.  Andr£-Louis  may  therefore  have 
felt  a  justifiable  satisfaction  in  offering  up  the  Chevalier's 
life  to  the  Manes  of  his  murdered  friend.  He  may  have 
viewed  it  as  an  act  of  common  justice  not  to  be  procured  by 
any  other  means.  Also  it  is  to  be  remembered  that  Cha- 
brillane  had  gone  confidently  to  the  meeting,  conceiving 
that  he,  a  practised  ferailleur,  had  to  deal  with  a  bourgeois 
utterly  unskilled  in  swordsmanship.  Morally,  then,  he  was 
little  better  than  a  murderer,  and  that  he  should  have 
tumbled  into  the  pit  he  conceived  that  he  dug  for  Andre- 
Louis  was  a  poetic  retribution.  Yet,  notwithstanding  all 
this,  I  should  find  the  cynical  note  on  which  Andr6-Louis 
announced  the  issue  to  the  Assembly  utterly  detestable  did 
I  believe  it  sincere.  It  would  justify  Aline  of  the  expressed 
opinion,  which  she  held  in  common  with  so  many  others  who 
had  come  into  close  contact  with  him,  that  Andre-Louis  was 
quite  heartless. 

You  have  seen  something  of  the  same  heartlessness  in  his 
conduct  when  he  discovered  the  faithlessness  of  La  Binet, 
although  that  is  belied  by  the  measures  he  took  to  avenge 
himself.  His  subsequent  contempt  of  the  woman  I  account 
to  be  born  of  the  affection  in  which  for  a  time  he  held  her. 
That  this  affection  was  as  deep  as  he  first  imagined,  I  do  not 
believe;  but  that  it  was  as  shallow  as  he  would  almost  be  at 
pains  to  make  it  appear  by  the  completeness  with  which  he 


302  The  Sword 


affects  to  have  put  her  from  his  mind  when  he  discovered 
her  worthlessness,  I  do  not  believe;  nor,  as  I  have  said,  do  his 
actions  encourage  that  belief.  Then,  again,  his  callous  cyni- 
cism in  hoping  that  he  had  killed  Binet  is  also  an  affecta- 
tion. Knowing  that  such  things  as  Binet  are  better  out  of 
the  world,  he  can  have  suffered  no  compunction;  he  had, 
you  must  remember,  that  rarely  level  vision  which  sees 
things  in  their  just  proportions,  and  never  either  magnifies 
or  reduces  them  by  sentimental  considerations.  At  the  same 
time,  that  he  should  contemplate  the  taking  of  life  with 
such  complete  and  cynical  equanimity,  whatever  the  justi- 
fication, is  quite  incredible. 

Similarly  now,  it  is  not  to  be  believed  that  in  coming 
straight  from  the  Bois  de  Boulogne,  straight  from  the  killing 
of  a  man,  he  should  be  sincerely  expressing  his  nature  in 
alluding  to  the  fact  in  terms  of  such  outrageous  flippancy. 
Not  quite  to  such  an  extent  was  he  the  incarnation  of  Scara- 
mouche.  But  sufficiently  was  he  so  ever  to  mask  his  true 
feelings  by  an  arresting  gesture,  his  true  thoughts  by  an 
effective  phrase.  He  was  the  actor  always,  a  man  ever 
calculating  the  effect  he  would  produce,  ever  avoiding  self- 
revelation,  ever  concerned  to  overlay  his  real  character  by  an 
assumed  and  quite  fictitious  one.  There  was  in  this  some- 
thing of  impishness,  and  something  of  other  things. 

Nobody  laughed  now  at  his  flippancy.  He  did  not  intend 
that  anybody  should.  He  intended  to  be  terrible;  and  he 
knew  that  the  more  flippant  and  casual  his  tone,  the  more 
terrible  would  be  its  effect.  He  produced  exactly  the  effect 
he  desired. 

What  followed  in  a  place  where  feelings  and  practices 
had  become  what  they  had  become  is  not  difficult  to  sur- 
mise. When  the  session  rose,  there  were  a  dozen  spadassins 
awaiting  him  in  the  vestibule,  and  this  time  the  men  of  his 
own  party  were  less  concerned  to  guard  him.  He  seemed  so 
entirely  capable  of  guarding  himself;  he  appeared,  for  all 
his  circumspection,  to  have  so  completely  carried  the  war 
into  the  enemy's  camp,  so  completely  to  have  adopted  their 


The  Paladin  of  the  Third  303 

own  methods,  that  his  fellows  scarcely  felt  the  need  to  pro- 
tect him  as  yesterday. 

As  he  emerged,  he  scanned  that  hostile  file,  whose  air  and 
garments  marked  them  so  clearly  for  what  they  were.  He 
paused,  seeking  the  man  he  expected,  the  man  he  was  most 
anxious  to  oblige.  But  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr  was  absent 
from  those  eager  ranks.  This  seemed  to  him  odd.  La  Tour 
d'Azyr  was  Chabrillane's  cousin  and  closest  friend.  Surely 
he  should  have  been  among  the  first  to-day.  The  fact  was 
that  La  Tour  d'Azyr  was  too  deeply  overcome  by  amaze- 
ment and  grief  at  the  utterly  unexpected  event.  Also  his 
vindictiveness  was  held  curiously  in  leash.  Perhaps  he,  too, 
remembered  the  part  played  by  Chabrillane  in  the  affair  at 
Gavrillac,  and  saw  in  this  obscure  Andre-Louis  Moreau,  who 
had  so  persistently  persecuted  him  ever  since,  an  ordained 
avenger.  The  repugnance  he  felt  to  come  to  the  point  with 
him,  particularly  after  this  culminating  provocation,  was 
puzzling  even  to  himself.  But  it  existed,  and  it  curbed  him 
now. 

To  Andre-Louis,  since  La  Tour  was  not  one  of  that  waiting 
pack,  it  mattered  little  on  that  Tuesday  morning  who  should 
be  the  next.  The  next,  as  it  happened,  was  the  young  Vi- 
comte  de  La  Motte-Royau,  one  of  the  deadliest  blades  in 
the  group. 

On  the  Wednesday  morning,  coming  again  an  hour  or  so 
late  to  the  Assembly,  Andre-Louis  announced  —  in  much 
the  same  terms  as  he  had  announced  the  death  of  Chabril- 
lane —  that  M.  de  La  Motte-Royau  would  probably  not  dis- 
turb the  harmony  of  the  Assembly  for  some  weeks  to  come, 
assuming  that  he  were  so  fortunate  as  to  recover  ultimately 
from  the  effects  of  an  unpleasant  accident  with  which  he  had 
quite  unexpectedly  had  the  misfortune  to  meet  that  morning. 

On  Thursday  he  made  an  identical  announcement  with 
regard  to  the  Vidame  de  Blavon.  On  Friday  he  told  them 
that  he  had  been  delayed  by  M.  de  Troiscantins,  and  then 
turning  to  the  members  of  the  C6t6  Droit,  and  lengthening 
his  face  to  a  sympathetic  gravity ; 


304  The  Sword 


"I  am  glad  to  inform  you,  messieurs,  that  M.  des  Trois- 
cantins  is  in  the  hands  of  a  very  competent  surgeon  who 
hopes  with  care  to  restore  him  to  your  councils  in  a  few 
weeks'  time." 

It  was  paralyzing,  fantastic,  unreal ;  and  friend  and  foe  in 
that  assembly  sat  alike  stupefied  under  those  bland  daily 
announcements.  Four  of  the  most  redoubtable  spadassini- 
cides  put  away  for  a  time,  one  of  them  dead  —  and  all  this 
performed  with  such  an  air  of  indifference  and  anounced  in 
such  casual  terms  by  a  wretched  little  provincial  lawyer! 

He  began  to  assume  in  their  eyes  a  romantic  aspect.  Even 
that  group  of  philosophers  of  the  C6t£  Gauche,  who  refused 
to  worship  any  force  but  the  force  of  reason,  began  to  look 
upon  him  with  a  respect  and  consideration  which  no  oratori- 
cal triumphs  could  ever  have  procured  him. 

And  from  the  Assembly  the  fame  of  him  oozed  out  grad- 
ually over  Paris.  Desmoulins  wrote  a  panegyric  upon  him 
in  his  paper  "Les  Revolutions,"  wherein  he  dubbed  him  the 
"Paladin  of  the  Third  Estate,"  a  name  that  caught  the 
fancy  of  the  people,  and  clung  to  him  for  some  time.  Dis- 
dainfully was  he  mentioned  in  the  "  Actes  des  Ap6tres,"  the 
mocking  organ  of  the  Privileged  party,  so  light-heartedly 
and  provocatively  edited  by  a  group  of  gentlemen  afflicted 
by  a  singular  mental  myopy. 

The  Friday  of  that  very  busy  week  in  the  life  of  this 
young  man  who  even  thereafter  is  to  persist  in  reminding  us 
that  he  is  not  in  any  sense  a  man  of  action,  found  the  vesti- 
bule of  the  Manege  empty  of  swordsmen  when  he  made  his 
leisurely  and  expectant  egress  between  Le  Chapelier  and 
Kersain. 

So  surprised  was  he  that  he  checked  in  his  stride. 

"Have  they  had  enough?"  he  wondered,  addressing  the 
question  to  Le  Chapelier. 

"They  have  had  enough  of  you,  I  should  think,"  was  the 
answer.  "They  will  prefer  to  turn  their  attention  to  some 
one  less  able  to  take  care  of  himself." 

Now  this  was  disappointing.  Andre-Louis  had  lent  him- 


The  Paladin  of  the  Third  305 

self  to  this  business  with  a  very  definite  object  in  view.  The 
slaying  of  Chabrillane  had,  as  far  as  it  went,  been  satis- 
factory. He  had  regarded  that  as  a  sort  of  acceptable  hors 
d'oeuvre.  But  the  three  who  had  followed  were  no  affair  of 
his  at  all.  He  had  met  them  with  a  certain  amount  of  re- 
pugnance, and  dealt  with  each  as  lightly  as  consideration  of 
his  own  safety  permitted.  Was  the  baiting  of  him  now  to 
cease  whilst  the  man  at  whom  he  aimed  had  not  presented 
himself?  In  that  case  it  would  be  necessary  to  force  the 
pace! 

Out  there  under  the  awning  a  group  of  gentlemen  stood 
in  earnest  talk.  Scanning  the  group  in  a  rapid  glance, 
Andr6-Louis  perceived  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr  amongst 
them.  He  tightened  his  lips.  He  must  afford  no  provoca- 
tion. It  must  be  for  them  to  fasten  their  quarrels  upon  him. 
Already  the  "Actes  des  Ap6tres"  that  morning  had  torn  the 
mask  from  his  face,  and  proclaimed  him  the  fencing-master 
of  the  Rue  du  Hasard,  successor  to  Bertrand  des  Amis. 
Hazardous  as  it  had  been  hitherto  for  a  man  of  his  condition 
to  engage  in  single  combat  it  was  rendered  doubly  so  by  this 
exposure,  offered  to  the  public  as  an  aristocratic  apologia. 

Still,  matters  could  not  be  left  where  they  were,  or  he 
should  have  had  all  his  pains  for  nothing.  Carefully  looking 
away  from  that  group  of  gentlemen,  he  raised  his  voice  so 
that  his  words  must  carry  to  their  ears. 

"It  begins  to  look  as  if  my  fears  of  having  to  spend  the 
remainder  of  my  days  in  the  Bois  were  idle." 

Out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye  he  caught  the  stir  his  words 
created  in  that  group.  Its  members  had  turned  to  look  at 
him;  but  for  the  moment  that  was  all.  A  little  more  was 
necessary.  Pacing  slowly  along  between  his  friends  he  re- 
sumed : 

"But  is  it  not  remarkable  that  the  assassin  of  Lagron 
should  make  no  move  against  Lagron's  successor?  Or  per- 
haps it  is  not  remarkable.  Perhaps  there  are  good  reasons. 
Perhaps  the  gentleman  is  prudent." 

He  had  passed  the  group  by  now,  and  he  left  that  last 


306  The  Sword 


sentence  of  his  to  trail  behind  him,  and  after  it  sent  laughter, 
insolent  and  provoking. 

He  had  not  long  to  wait.  Came  a  quick  step  behind  him, 
and  a  hand  falling  upon  his  shoulder,  spun  him  violently 
round.  He  was  brought  face  to  face  with  M.  de  La  Tour 
d'Azyr,  whose  handsome  countenance  was  calm  and  com- 
posed, but  whose  eyes  reflected  something  of  the  sudden 
blaze  of  passion  stirring  in  him.  Behind  him  several  mem- 
bers of  the  group  were  approaching  more  slowly.  The  others 
—  like  Andr6-Louis'  two  companions  —  remained  at  gaze. 

"You  spoke  of  me,  I  think,"  said  the  Marquis  quietly. 

"I  spoke  of  an  assassin  —  yes.  But  to  these  my  friends." 
Andr6-Louis'  manner  was  no  less  quiet,  indeed  the  quieter 
of  the  two,  for  he  was  the  more  experienced  actor. 

"You  spoke  loudly  enough  to  be  overheard,"  said  the 
Marquis,  answering  the  insinuation  that  he  had  been  eaves- 
dropping. 

"Those  who  wish  to  overhear  frequently  contrive  to  do  so." 

"I  perceive  that  it  is  your  aim  to  be  offensive." 

"Oh,  but  you  are  mistaken,  M.  le  Marquis.  I  have  no 
wish  to  be  offensive.  But  I  resent  having  hands  violently 
laid  upon  me,  especially  when  they  are  hands  that  I  cannot 
consider  clean.  In  the  circumstances  I  can  hardly  be  ex- 
pected to  be  polite." 

The  elder  man's  eyelids  flickered.  Almost  he  caught  him- 
self admiring  Andre-Louis'  bearing.  Rather,  he  feared  that 
his  own  must  suffer  by  comparison.  Because  of  this,  he  en- 
raged altogether,  and  lost  control  of  himself. 

"You  spoke  of  me  as  the  assassin  of  Lagron.  I  do  not 
affect  to  misunderstand  you.  You  expounded  your  views 
to  me  once  before,  and  I  remember." 

"But  what  flattery,  monsieur!" 

"You  called  me  an  assassin  then,  because  I  used  my  skill 
to  dispose  of  a  turbulent  hot-head  who  made  the  world  un- 
safe for  me.  But  how  much  better  are  you,  M.  the  fencing- 
master,  when  you  oppose  yourself  to  men  whose  skill  is  as 
naturally  inferior  to  your  own!" 


The  Paladin  of  the  Third  307 

M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr's  friends  looked  grave,  perturbed. 
It  was  really  incredible  to  find  this  great  gentleman  so  far 
forgetting  himself  as  to  descend  to  argument  with  a  canaille 
of  a  lawyer-swordsman.  And  what  was  worse,  it  was  an  ar- 
gument in  which  he  was  being  made  ridiculous. 

"  I  oppose  myself  to  them!"  said  Andr£-Louis  on  a  tone  of 
amused  protest.  "Ah,  pardon,  M.  le  Marquis;  it  is  they  who 
chose  to  oppose  themselves  to  me  —  and  so  stupidly.  They 
push  me,  they  slap  my  face,  they  tread  on  my  toes,  they  call 
me  by  unpleasant  names.  What  if  I  am  a  fencing-master? 
Must  I  on  that  account  submit  to  every  manner  of  ill-treat- 
ment from  your  bad-mannered  friends?  Perhaps  had  they 
found  out  sooner  that  I  am  a  fencing-master  their  manners 
would  have  been  better.  But  to  blame  me  for  that!  What 
injustice!" 

"  Comedian ! "  the  Marquis  contemptuously  apostrophized 
him.  "Does  it  alter  the  case?  Are  these  men  who  have  op- 
posed you  men  who  live  by  the  sword  like  yourself?" 

"On  the  contrary,  M.  le  Marquis,  I  have  found  them  men 
who  died  by  the  sword  with  astonishing  ease.  I  cannot  sup- 
pose that  you  desire  to  add  yourself  to  their  number." 

"And  why,  if  you  please?"  La  Tour  d'Azyr's  face  had 
flamed  scarlet  before  that  sneer. 

"Oh,"  Andr£-Louis  raised  his  eyebrows  and  pursed  his 
lips,  a  man  considering.  He  delivered  himself  slowly.  "Be- 
cause, monsieur,  you  prefer  the  easy  victim  —  the  Lagrons 
and  Vilmorins  of  this  world,  mere  sheep  for  your  butchering. 
That  is  why." 

And  then  the  Marquis  struck  him. 

Andr£-Louis  stepped  back.  His  eyes  gleamed  a  moment; 
the  next  they  were  smiling  up  into  the  face  of  his  tall  enemy. 

"No  better  than  the  others,  after  all!  Well,  well!  Re- 
mark, I  beg  you,  how  history  repeats  itself  —  with  certain 
differences.  Because  poor  Vilmorin  could  not  bear  a  vile 
lie  with  which  you  goaded  him,  he  struck  you.  Because  you 
cannot  bear  an  equally  vile  truth  which  I  have  uttered,  you 
strike  me.  But  always  is  the  vileness  yours.  And  now  as  then 


308  The  Sword 


for  the  striker  there  is  ..."  He  broke  off.  "But  why  name 
it?  You  will  remember  what  there  is.  Yourself  you  wrote  it 
that  day  with  the  point  of  your  too-ready  sword.  But  there. 
I  will  meet  you  if  you  desire  it,  monsieur." 

"What  else  do  you  suppose  that  I  desire?  To  talk?" 

Andr£-Louis  turned  to  his  friends  and  sighed.  "So  that  I 
am  to  go  another  jaunt  to  the  Bois.  Isaac,  perhaps  you  will 
kindly  have  a  word  with  one  of  these  friends  of  M.  le  Mar- 
quis', and  arrange  for  nine  o'clock  to-morrow,  as  usual." 

"Not  to-morrow,"  said  the  Marquis  shortly  to  Le  Chape- 
lier.  "  I  have  an  engagement  in  the  country,  which  I  cannot 
postpone." 

Le  Chapelier  looked  at  Andr6-Louis. 

"Then  for  M.  le  Marquis'  convenience,  we  will  say  Sunday 
at  the  same  hour." 

"  I  do  not  fight  on  Sunday.  I  am  not  a  pagan  to  break  the 
holy  day." 

"But  surely  the  good  God  would  not  have  the  presump- 
tion to  damn  a  gentleman  of  M.  le  Marquis'  quality  on  that 
account?  Ah,  well,  Isaac,  please  arrange  for  Monday,  if  it 
is  not  a  feast-day  or  monsieur  has  not  some  other  pressing 
engagement.  I  leave  it  in  your  hands." 

He  bowed  with  the  air  of  a  man  wearied  by  these  details, 
and  threading  his  arm  through  Kersain's  withdrew. 

"Ah,  Dieu  de  Dieu !  But  what  a  trick  of  it  you  have,"  said 
the  Breton  deputy,  entirely  unsophisticated  in  these  matters. 

"To  be  sure  I  have.  I  have  taken  lessons  at  their  hands." 
He  laughed.  He  was  in  excellent  good-humour.  And  Ker- 
sain  was  enrolled  in  the  ranks  of  those  who  accounted  Andr£- 
Louis  a  man  without  heart  or  conscience. 

But  in  his  "Confessions"  he  tells  us  —  and  this  is  one  of 
the  glimpses  that  reveal  the  true  man  under  all  that  make- 
believe  —  that  on  that  night  he  went  down  on  his  knees  to 
commune  with  his  dead  friend  Philippe,  and  to  call  his 
spirit  to  witness  that  he  was  about  to  take  the  last  step  in 
the  fulfilment  of  the  oath  sworn  upon  his  body  at  Gavrillac 
two  years  ago. 


CHAPTER  IX 
TORN  PRIDE 

M.  DE  LA  TOUR  D'AZYR'S  engagement  in  the  country  on  that 
Sunday  was  with  M.  de  Kercadiou.  To  fulfil  it  he  drove  out 
early  in  the  day  to  Meudon,  taking  with  him  in  his  pocket  a 
copy  of  the  last  issue  of  "Les  Actes  des  Ap6tres,"  a  journal 
whose  merry  sallies  at  the  expense  of  the  innovators  greatly 
diverted  the  Seigneur  de  Gavrillac.  The  venomous  scorn  it 
poured  upon  those  worthless  rapscallions  afforded  him  a  cer- 
tain solatium  against  the  discomforts  of  expatriation  by 
which  he  was  afflicted  as  a  result  of  their  detestable  energies. 
Twice  in  the  last  month,  had  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr  gone 
to  visit  the  Lord  of  Gavrillac  at  Meudon,  and  the  sight  of 
Aline,  so  sweet  and  fresh,  so  bright  and  of  so  lively  a  mind, 
had  caused  those  embers  smouldering  under  the  ashes  of 
the  past,  embers  which  until  now  he  had  believed  utterly  ex- 
tinct, to  kindle  into  flame  once  more.  He  desired  her  as  we 
desire  Heaven.  I  believe  that  it  was  the  purest  passion  of 
his  life ;  that  had  it  come  to  him  earlier  he  might  have  been  a 
vastly  different  man.  The  cruellest  wound  that  in  all  his 
selfish  life  he  had  taken  was  when  she  sent  him  word,  quite 
definitely  after  the  affair  at  the  Feydau,  that  she  could  not 
again  in  any  circumstances  receive  him.  At  one  blow  — 
through  that  disgraceful  riot  —  he  had  been  robbed  of  a 
mistress  he  prized  and  of  a  wife  who  had  become  a  necessity 
to  the  very  soul  of  him.  The  sordid  love  of  La  Binet  might 
have  consoled  him  for  the  compulsory  renunciation  of  his 
exalted  love  of  Aline,  just  as  to  his  exalted  love  of  Aline  he 
had  been  ready  to  sacrifice  his  attachment  to  La  Binet.  But 
that  ill-timed  riot  had  robbed  him  at  once  of  both.  Faithful 
to  his  word  to  Sautron  he  had  definitely  broken  with  La 
Binet,  only  to  find  that  Aline  had  definitely  broken  with  him. 
And  by  the  time  that  he  had  sufficiently  recovered  from  his 


3io  The  Sword 

grief  to  think  again  of  La  Binet,  the  com6dienne  had  van- 
ished beyond  discovery. 

For  all  this  he  blamed,  and  most  bitterly  blamed,  Andr6- 
Louis.  That  low-born  provincial  lout  pursued  him  like  a 
Nemesis,  was  become  indeed  the  evil  genius  of  his  life.  That 
was  it  —  the  evil  genius  of  his  life !  And  it  was  odds  that  on 
Monday  .  .  .  He  did  not  like  to  think  of  Monday.  He  was 
not  particularly  afraid  of  death.  He  was  as  brave  as  his  kind 
in  that  respect,  too  brave  in  the  ordinary  way,  and  too  con- 
fident of  his  skill,  to  have  considered  even  remotely  such  a 
possibility  as  that  of  dying  in  a  duel.  It  was  only  that  it 
would  seem  like  a  proper  consummation  of  all  the  evil  that 
he  had  suffered  directly  or  indirectly  through  this  Andr£- 
Louis  Moreau  that  he  should  perish  ignobly  by  his  hand.  Al- 
most he  could  hear  that  insolent,  pleasant  voice  making  the 
flippant  announcement  to  the  Assembly  on  Monday  morn- 
ing. 

He  shook  off  the  mood,  angry  with  himself  for  entertain- 
ing it.  It  was  maudlin.  After  all  Chabrillane  and  La  Motte- 
Royau  were  quite  exceptional  swordsmen,  but  neither  of 
them  really  approached  his  own  formidable  calibre.  Re- 
action began  to  flow,  as  he  drove  out  through  country  lanes 
flooded  with  pleasant  September  sunshine.  His  spirits  rose. 
A  premonition  of  victory  stirred  within  him.  Far  from  fear- 
ing Monday's  meeting,  as  he  had  so  unreasonably  been  do- 
ing, he  began  to  look  forward  to  it.  It  should  afford  him  the 
means  of  setting  a  definite  term  to  this  persecution  of  which 
he  had  been  the  victim.  He  would  crush  this  insolent  and 
persistent  flea  that  had  been  stinging  him  at  every  oppor- 
tunity. Borne  upward  on  that  wave  of  optimism,  he  took 
presently  a  more  hopeful  view  of  his  case  with  Aline. 

At  their  first  meeting  a  month  ago  he  had  used  the  ut- 
most frankness  with  her.  He  had  told  her  the  whole  truth  of 
his  motives  in  going  that  night  to  the  Feydau ;  he  had  made 
her  realize  that  she  had  acted  unjustly  towards  him.  True 
he  had  gone  no  farther. 

But  that  was  very  far  to  have  gone  as  a  beginning.  And  in 


Torn  Pride  311 

their  last  meeting,  now  a  fortnight  old,  she  had  received  him 
with  frank  friendliness.  True,  she  had  been  a  little  aloof. 
But  that  was  to  be  expected  until  he  quite  explicitly  avowed 
that  he  had  revived  the  hope  of  winning  her.  He  had  been  a 
fool  not  to  have  returned  before  to-day. 

Thus  in  that  mood  of  new-born  confidence  —  a  confidence 
risen  from  the  very  ashes  of  despondency  —  came  he  on  that 
Sunday  morning  to  Meudon.  He  was  gay  and  jovial  with  M. 
de  Kercadiou  what  time  he  waited  in  the  salon  for  mademoi- 
selle to  show  herself.  He  pronounced  with  confidence  on  the 
country's  future.  There  were  signs  already  —  he  wore  the 
rosiest  spectacles  that  morning  —  of  a  change  of  opinion, 
of  a  more  moderate  note.  The  Nation  began  to  perceive 
whither  this  lawyer  rabble  was  leading  it.  He  pulled  out 
"The  Acts  of  the  Apostles"  and  read  a  stinging  paragraph. 
Then,  when  mademoiselle  at  last  made  her  appearance,  he 
resigned  the  journal  into  the  hands  of  M.  de  Kercadiou. 

M.  de  Kercadiou,  with  his  niece's  future  to  consider,  went 
to  read  the  paper  in  the  garden,  taking  up  there  a  position 
whence  he  could  keep  the  couple  within  sight  —  as  his 
obligations  seemed  to  demand  of  him  —  whilst  being  dis- 
creetly out  of  earshot. 

The  Marquis  made  the  most  of  an  opportunity  that  might 
be  brief.  He  quite  frankly  declared  himself,  and  begged, 
implored  to  be  taken  back  into  Aline's  good  graces,  to  be 
admitted  at  least  to  the  hope  that  one  day  before  very  long 
she  would  bring  herself  to  consider  him  in  a  nearer  rela- 
tionship. 

"  Mademoiselle,"  he  told  her,  his  voice  vibrating  with  a 
feeling  that  admitted  of  no  doubt,  "you  cannot  lack  con- 
viction of  my  utter  sincerity.  The  very  constancy  of  my 
devotion  should  afford  you  this.  It  is  just  that  I  should  have 
been  banished  from  you,  since  I  showed  myself  so  utterly  un- 
worthy of  the  great  honour  to  which  I  aspired.  But  this  ban- 
ishment has  nowise  diminished  my  devotion.  If  you  could 
conceive  what  I  have  suffered,  you  would  agree  that  I  have 
fully  expiated  my  abject  fault." 


312  The  Sword 


She  looked  at  him  with  a  curious,  gentle  wistfulness  on  her 
lovely  face. 

"Monsieur,  it  is  not  you  whom  I  doubt.   It  is  myself." 

"You  mean  your  feelings  towards  me?" 

"Yes." 

"But  that  I  can  understand.  After  what  has  happened  . . ." 

"It  was  always  so,  monsieur,"  she  interrupted  quietly. 
"You  speak  of  me  as  if  lost  to  you  by  your  own  action. 
That  is  to  say  too  much.  Let  me  be  frank  with  you.  Mon- 
sieur, I  was  never  yours  to  lose.  I  am  conscious  of  the  honour 
that  you  do  me.  I  esteem  you  very  deeply  ..." 

"But,  then, "  he  cried,  on  a  high  note  of  confidence,  "from 
such  a  beginning  ..." 

"Who  shall  assure  me  that  it  is  a  beginning?  May  it  not 
be  the  whole?  Had  I  held  you  in  affection,  monsieur,  I  should 
have  sent  for  you  after  the  affair  of  which  you  have  spoken. 
I  should  at  least  not  have  condemned  you  without  hearing 
your  explanation.  As  it  was  ..."  She  shrugged,  smiling 
gently,  sadly.  "You  see." 

But  his  optimism  far  from  being  crushed  was  stimulated. 
"But  it  is  to  give  me  hope,  mademoiselle.  If  already  I  pos- 
sess so  much,  I  may  look  with  confidence  to  win  more.  I 
shall  prove  myself  worthy.  I  swear  to  do  that.  Who  that  is 
permitted  the  privilege  of  being  near  you  could  do  other 
than  seek  to  render  himself  worthy?" 

And  then  before  she  could  add  a  word,  M.  de  Kercadiou 
came  blustering  through  the  window,  his  spectacles  on  his 
forehead,  his  face  inflamed,  waving  in  his  hand  "The  Acts  of 
the  Apostles,"  and  apparently  reduced  to  speechlessness. 

Had  the  Marquis  expressed  himself  aloud  he  would  have 
been  profane.  As  it  was  he  bit  his  lip  in  vexation  at  this  most 
inopportune  interruption. 

Aline  sprang  up,  alarmed  by  her  uncle's  agitation. 

"What  has  happened?" 

"Happened?"  He  found  speech  at  last.  "The  scoundrel! 
The  faithless  dog!  I  consented  to  overlook  the  past  on  the 
clear  condition  that  he  should  avoid  revolutionary  politics 


Torn  Pride  313 

in  future.  That  condition  he  accepted,  and  now"  —  he 
smacked  the  news-sheet  furiously — "he  has  played  me 
false  again.  Not  only  has  he  gone  into  politics,  once  more, 
but  he  is  actually  a  member  of  the  Assembly,  and  what  is 
worse  he  has  been  using  his  assassin's  skill  as  a  fencing- 
master,  turning  himself  into  a  bully-swordsman.  My  God! 
Is  there  any  law  at  all  left  in  France?" 

One  doubt  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr  had  entertained,  though 
only  faintly,  to  mar  the  perfect  serenity  of  his  growing  op- 
timism. That  doubt  concerned  this  man  Moreau  and  his 
relations  with  M.  de  Kercadiou.  He  knew  what  once  they 
had  been,  and  how  changed  they  subsequently  were  by  the 
ingratitude  of  Moreau 's  own  behavior  in  turning  against  the 
class  to  which  his  benefactor  belonged.  What  he  did  not 
know  was  that  a  reconciliation  had  been  effected.  For  in  the 
past  month  —  ever  since  circumstances  had  driven  Andre- 
Louis  to  depart  from  his  undertaking  to  steer  clear  of  poli- 
tics —  the  young  man  had  not  ventured  to  approach  Meudon, 
and  as  it  happened  his  name  had  not  been  mentioned  in  La 
Tour  d'Azyr's  hearing  on  the  occasion  of  either  of  his  own 
previous  visits.  He  learnt  of  that  reconciliation  now;  but  he 
learnt  at  the  same  time  that  the  breach  was  now  renewed, 
and  rendered  wider  and  more  impassable  than  ever.  There- 
fore he  did  not  hesitate  to  avow  his  own  position. 

"There  is  a  law,"  he  answered.  "The  law  that  this  rash 
young  man  himself  evokes.  The  law  of  the  sword."  He 
spoke  very  gravely,  almost  sadly.  For  he  realized  that  after 
all  the  ground  was  tender.  "You  are  not  to  suppose  that  he 
is  to  continue  indefinitely  his  career  of  evil  and  of  murder. 
Sooner  or  later  he  will  meet  a  sword  that  will  avenge  the 
others.  You  have  observed  that  my  cousin  Chabrillane  is 
among  the  number  of  this  assassin's  victims;  that  he  was 
killed  on  Tuesday  last." 

"If  I  have  not  expressed  my  condolence,  Azyr,  it  is  be- 
cause my  indignation  stifles  at  the  moment  every  other 
feeling.  The  scoundrel !  You  say  that  sooner  or  later  he  will 
meet  a  sword  that  will  avenge  the  others.  I  pray  that  it  may 
be  soon." 


314  The  Sword 


The  Marquis  answered  him  quietly,  without  anything  but 
sorrow  in  his  voice.  "I  think  your  prayer  is  likely  to  be 
heard.  This  wretched  young  man  has  an  engagement  for  to- 
morrow, when  his  account  may  be  definitely  settled." 

He  spoke  with  such  calm  conviction  that  his  words  had 
all  the  sound  of  a  sentence  of  death.  They  suddenly  stemmed 
the  flow  of  M.  de  Kercadiou's  anger.  The  colour  receded 
from  his  inflamed  face;  dread  looked  out  of  his  pale  eyes,  to 
inform  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr,  more  clearly  than  any  words, 
that  M.  de  Kercadiou's  hot  speech  had  been  the  expression 
of  unreflecting  anger,  that  his  prayer  that  retribution  might 
soon  overtake  his  godson  had  been  unconsciously  insin- 
cere. Confronted  now  by  the  fact  that  this  retribution  was 
about  to  be  visited  upon  that  scoundrel,  the  fundamental 
gentleness  and  kindliness  of  his  nature  asserted  itself;  his 
anger  was  suddenly  whelmed  in  apprehension ;  his  affection 
for  the  lad  beat  up  to  the  surface,  making  Andr6-Louis' 
sin,  however  hideous,  a  thing  of  no  account  by  comparison 
with  the  threatened  punishment. 

M.  de  Kercadiou  moistened  his  lips. 

"With  whom  is  this  engagement?  "  he  asked  in  a  voice  that 
by  an  effort  he  contrived  to  render  steady. 

M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr  bowed  his  handsome  head,  his 
eyes  upon  the  gleaming  parquetry  of  the  floor.  "With  my- 
self," he  answered  quietly,  conscious  already  with  a  tighten- 
ing of  the  heart  that  his  answer  must  sow  dismay.  He  caught 
the  sound  of  a  faint  outcry  from  Aline;  he  saw  the  sudden 
recoil  of  M.  de  Kercadiou.  And  then  he  plunged  headlong 
into  the  explanation  that  he  deemed  necessary. 

"In  view  of  his  relations  with  you,  M.  de  Kercadiou,  and 
because  of  my  deep  regard  for  you,  I  did  my  best  to  avoid 
this,  even  though  as  you  will  understand  the  death  of  my 
dear  friend  and  cousin  Chabrillane  seemed  to  summon  me  to 
action,  even  though  I  knew  that  my  circumspection  was  be- 
coming matter  for  criticism  among  my  friends.  But  yester- 
day this  unbridled  young  man  made  further  restraint  im- 
possible to  me.  He  provoked  me  deliberately  and  publicly. 


Torn  Pride  315 

He  put  upon  me  the  very  grossest  affront,  and  .  .  .  to- 
morrow morning  in  the  Bois  ...  we  meet." 

He  faltered  a  little  at  the  end,  fully  conscious  of  the  hos- 
tile atmosphere  in  which  he  suddenly  found  himself.  Hos- 
tility from  M.  de  Kercadiou,  the  latter 's  earlier  change  of 
manner  had  already  led  him  to  expect;  the  hostility  of 
mademoiselle  came  more  in  the  nature  of  a  surprise. 

He  began  to  understand  what  difficulties  the  course  to 
which  he  was  committed  must  raise  up  for  him.  A  fresh 
obstacle  was  to  be  flung  across  the  path  which  he  had  just 
cleared,  as  he  imagined.  Yet  his  pride  and  his  sense  of  the 
justice  due  to  be  done  admitted  of  no  weakening. 

In  bitterness  he  realized  now,  as  he  looked  from  uncle  to 
niece  —  his  glance,  usually  so  direct  and  bold,  now  oddly 
furtive  —  that  though  to-morrow  he  might  kill  Andr6- 
Louis,  yet  even  by  his  death  Andre-Louis  would  take  ven- 
geance upon  him.  He  had  exaggerated  nothing  in  reaching 
the  conclusion  that  this  Andre-Louis  Moreau  was  the  evil 
genius  of  his  life.  He  saw  now  that  do  what  he  would,  kill 
him  even  though  he  might,  he  could  never  conquer  him.  The 
last  word  would  always  be  with  Andre-Louis  Moreau.  In 
bitterness,  in  rage,  and  in  humiliation  —  a  thing  almost 
unknown  to  him  —  did  he  realize  it,  and  the  realization 
steeled  his  purpose  for  all  that  he  perceived  its  futility. 

Outwardly  he  showed  himself  calm  and  self-contained, 
properly  suggesting  a  man  regretfully  accepting  the  inevi- 
table. It  would  have  been  as  impossible  to  find  fault  with 
his  bearing  as  to  attempt  to  turn  him  from  the  matter  to 
which  he  was  committed.  And  so  M.  de  Kercadiou  per- 
ceived. 

"My  God!"  was  all  that  he  said,  scarcely  above  his 
breath,  yet  almost  in  a  groan. 

M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr  did,  as  always,  the  thing  that  sensi- 
bility demanded  of  him.  He  took  his  leave.  He  understood 
that  to  linger  where  his  news  had  produced  such  an  effect 
would  be  impossible,  indecent.  So  he  departed,  in  a  bitter- 
ness comparable  only  with  his  erstwhile  optimism,  the 


3i6  The  Sword 

sweet  fruit  of  hope  turned  to  a  thing  of  gall  even  as  it  touched 
his  lips.  Oh,  yes;  the  last  word,  indeed,  was  with  Andre- 
Louis  Moreau  —  always ! 

Uncle  and  niece  looked  at  each  other  as  he  passed  out, 
and  there  was  horror  in  the  eyes  of  both.  Aline's  pallor  was 
deathly  almost,  and  standing  there  now  she  wrung  her  hands 
as  if  in  pain. 

"Why  did  you  not  ask  him  —  beg  him  .  .  ."  She  broke 
off. 

"To  what  end?  He  was  in  the  right,  and  .  .  .  and  .  .  . 
there  are  things  one  cannot  ask ;  things  it  would  be  a  useless 
humiliation  to  ask."  He  sat  down,  groaning.  "Oh,  the 
poor  boy  —  the  poor,  misguided  boy." 

In  the  mind  of  neither,  you  see,  was  there  any  doubt  of 
what  must  be  the  issue.  The  calm  confidence  in  which  La 
Tourd'Azyr  had  spoken  compelled  itself  to  be  shared.  He 
was  no  vainglorious  boaster,  and  they  knew  of  what  a  force 
as  a  swordsman  he  was  generally  accounted. 

"What  does  humiliation  matter?  A  life  is  at  issue  — 
Andre's  life." 

"  I  know.  My  God,  don't  I  know?  And  I  would  humiliate 
myself  if  by  humiliating  myself  I  could  hope  to  prevail.  But 
Azyr  is  a  hard,  relentless  man,  and  ..." 

Abruptly  she  left  him. 

She  overtook  the  Marquis  as  he  was  in  the  act  of  stepping 
into  his  carriage.  He  turned  as  she  called,  and  bowed. 

"Mademoiselle?" 

At  once  he  guessed  her  errand,  tasted  in  anticipation  the 
unparalleled  bitterness  of  being  compelled  to  refuse  her. 
Yet  at  her  invitation  he  stepped  back  into  the  cool  of  the 
hall. 

In  the  middle  of  the  floor  of  chequered  marbles,  black  and 
white,  stood  a  carved  table  of  black  oak.  By  this  he  halted, 
leaning  lightly  against  it  whilst  she  sat  enthroned  in  the 
great  crimson  chair  beside  it. 

"Monsieur,  I  cannot  allow  you  so  to  depart,"  she  said. 
"You  cannot  realize,  monsieur,  what  a  blow  would  be  dealt 


Torn  Pride  3*7 

my  uncle  if  ...  if  evil,  irrevocable  evil  were  to  overtake 
his  godson  to-morrow.  The  expressions  that  he  used  at 
first . . ." 

"Mademoiselle,  I  perceived  their  true  value.  Spare 
yourself.  Believe  me  I  am  profoundly  desolated  by  cir- 
cumstances which  I  had  not  expected  to  find.  You  must 
believe  me  when  I  say  that.  It  is  all  that  I  can  say." 

"Must  it  really  be  all?  Andr6  is  very  dear  to  his  god- 
father." 

The  pleading  tone  cut  him  like  a  knife;  and  then  suddenly 
it  aroused  another  emotion  —  an  emotion  which  he  realized 
to  be  utterly  unworthy,  an  emotion  which,  in  his  overwhelm- 
ing pride  of  race,  seemed  almost  sullying,  yet  not  to  be  re- 
pressed. He  hesitated  to  give  it  utterance;  hesitated  even 
remotely  to  suggest  so  horrible  a  thing  as  that  in  a  man  of 
such  lowly  origin  he  might  conceivably  discover  a  rival. 
Yet  that  sudden  pang  of  jealousy  was  stronger  than  his 
monstrous  pride. 

"And  to  you,  mademoiselle?  What  is  this  Andr6-Louis 
Moreau  to  you?  You  will  pardon  the  question.  But  I 
desire  clearly  to  understand." 

Watching  her  he  beheld  the  scarlet  stain  that  overspread 
her  face.  He  read  in  it  at  first  confusion,  until  the  gleam  of 
her  blue  eyes  announced  its  source  to  lie  in  anger.  That 
comforted  him;  since  he  had  affronted  her,  he  was  reas- 
sured. It  did  not  occur  to  him  that  the  anger  might  have 
another  source. 

"Andre  and  I  have  been  playmates  from  infancy.  He 
is  very  dear  to  me,  too;  almost  I  regard  him  as  a  brother. 
Were  I  in  need  of  help,  and  were  my  uncle  not  available, 
Andr6  would  be  the  first  man  to  whom  I  should  turn.  Are 
you  sufficiently  answered,  monsieur?  Or  is  there  more  of  me 
you  would  desire  revealed?" 

He  bit  his  lip.  He  was  unnerved,  he  thought,  this  morn- 
ing ;  otherwise  the  silly  suspicion  with  which  he  had  offended 
could  never  have  occurred  to  him. 

He  bowed  very  low.  "Mademoiselle,  forgive  that  I  should 


318  The  Sword 


have  troubled  you  with  such  a  question.  You  have  an- 
swered more  fully  than  I  could  have  hoped  or  wished." 

He  said  no  more  than  that.  He  waited  for  her  to  resume. 
At  a  loss,  she  sat  in  silence  awhile,  a  pucker  on  her  white 
brow,  her  fingers  nervously  drumming  on  the  table.  At 
last  she  flung  herself  headlong  against  the  impassive,  pol- 
ished front  that  he  presented. 

"  I  have  come,  monsieur,  to  beg  you  to  put  off  this  meet- 
ing." 

She  saw  the  faint  raising  of  his  dark  eyebrows,  the  faintly 
regretful  smile  that  scarcely  did  more  than  tinge  his  fine 
lips,  and  she  hurried  on.  "What  honour  can  await  you  in 
such  an  engagement,  monsieur?" 

It  was  a  shrewd  thrust  at  the  pride  of  race  that  she  ac- 
counted his  paramount  sentiment,  that  had  as  often  lured 
him  into  error  as  it  had  urged  him  into  good. 

"  I  do  not  seek  honour  in  it,  mademoiselle,  but  —  I  must 
say  it  —  justice.  The  engagement,  as  I  have  explained,  is 
not  of  my  seeking.  It  has  been  thrust  upon  me,  and  in 
honour  I  cannot  draw  back." 

"Why,  what  dishonour  would  there  be  in  sparing  him? 
Surely,  monsieur,  none  would  call  your  courage  in  question? 
None  could  misapprehend  your  motives." 

"You  are  mistaken,  mademoiselle.  My  motives  would 
most  certainly  be  misapprehended.  You  forget  that  this 
young  man  has  acquired  in  the  past  week  a  certain  reputa- 
tion that  might  well  make  a  man  hesitate  to  meet  him." 

She  brushed  that  aside  almost  contemptuously,  conceiv- 
ing it  the  merest  quibble. 

"Some  men,  yes.    But  not  you,  M.  le  Marquis." 

Her  confidence  in  him  on  every  count  was  most  sweetly 
flattering.  But  there  was  a  bitterness  behind  the  sweet. 

"Even  I,  mademoiselle,  let  me  assure  you.  And  there  is 
more  than  that.  This  quarrel  which  M.  Moreau  has  forced 
upon  me  is  no  new  thing.  It  is  merely  the  culmination  of  a 
long-drawn  persecution  ..." 

"Which  you  invited,"  she  cut  in.    "Be  just,  monsieur." 


Torn  Pride  319 

"  I  hope  that  it  is  not  in  my  nature  to  be  otherwise,  made- 
moiselle." 

"Consider,  then,  that  you  killed  his  friend." 

"I  find  in  that  nothing  with  which  to  reproach  myself. 
My  justification  lay  in  the  circumstances  —  the  subsequent 
events  in  this  distracted  country  surely  confirm  it." 

"And  .  .  ."  She  faltered  a  little,  and  looked  away  from 
him  for  the  first  time.  "And  that  you  .  .  .  that  you  .  .  .  And 
what  of  Mademoiselle  Binet,  whom  he  was  to  have  married  ?  " 

He  stared  at  her  for  a  moment  in  sheer  surprise.  "Was  to 
have  married?"  he  repeated  incredulously,  dismayed  almost. 

"You  did  not  know  that?" 

"But  how  do  you?" 

"Did  I  not  tell  you  that  we  are  as  brother  and  sister  al- 
most? I  have  his  confidence.  He  told  me,  before  .  .  .  be- 
fore you  made  it  impossible." 

He  looked  away,  chin  in  hand,  his  glance  thoughtful,  dis- 
turbed, almost  wistful. 

"There  is,"  he  said  slowly,  musingly,  "a  singular  fatality 
at  work  between  that  man  and  me,  bringing  us  ever  each  by 
turns  athwart  the  other's  path  ..." 

He  sighed;  then  swung  to  face  her  again,  speaking  more 
briskly:  "Mademoiselle,  until  this  moment  I  had  no  knowl- 
edge —  no  suspicion  of  this  thing.  But .  .  ."  He  broke  off, 
considered,  and  then  shrugged.  "If  I  wronged  him,  I  did  so 
unconsciously.  It  would  be  unjust  to  blame  me,  surely.  In 
all  our  actions  it  must  be  the  intention  alone  that  counts." 

"But  does  it  make  no  difference?" 

"None  that  I  can  discern,  mademoiselle.  It  gives  me  no 
justification  to  withdraw  from  that  to  which  I  am  irrevo- 
cably committed.  No  justification,  indeed,  could  ever  be 
greater  than  my  concern  for  the  pain  it  must  occasion  my 
good  friend,  your  uncle,  and  perhaps  yourself,  mademoiselle." 

She  rose  suddenly,  squarely  confronting  him,  desperate 
now,  driven  to  play  the  only  card  upon  which  she  thought 
she  might  count. 

"Monsieur,"  she  said,  "you  did  me  the  honour  to-day 


32O  The  Sword 


to  speak  in  certain  terms ;  to  ...  to  allude  to  certain  hopes 
with  which  you  honour  me." 

He  looked  at  her  almost  in  fear.  In  silence,  not  daring 
to  speak,  he  waited  for  her  to  continue. 

"  I  ...  I  ...  Will  you  please  to  understand,  monsieur,  that 
if  you  persist  in  this  matter,  if  ...  unless  you  can  break  this 
engagement  of  yours  to-morrow  morning  in  the  Bois,  you 
are  not  to  presume  to  mention  this  subject  to  me  again,  or, 
indeed,  ever  again  to  approach  me." 

To  put  the  matter  in  this  negative  way  was  as  far  as  she 
could  possibly  go.  It  was  for  him  to  make  the  positive  pro- 
posal to  which  she  had  thus  thrown  wide  the  door. 

"Mademoiselle,  you  cannot  mean  ..." 

"I  do,  monsieur  .  .  .  irrevocably,  please  to  understand." 

He  looked  at  her  with  eyes  of  misery,  his  handsome,  manly 
face  as  pale  as  she  had  ever  seen  it.  The  hand  he  had  been 
holding  out  in  protest  began  to  shake.  He  lowered  it  to  his 
side  again,  lest  she  should  perceive  its  tremor.  Thus  a  brief 
second,  while  the  battle  was  fought  within  him,  the  bitter 
engagement  between  his  desires  and  what  he  conceived  to 
be  the  demands  of  his  honour,  never  perceiving  how  far  his 
honour  was  buttressed  by  implacable  vindictiveness.  Re- 
treat, he  conceived,  was  impossible  without  shame;  and 
shame  was  to  him  an  agony  unthinkable.  She  asked  too 
much.  She  could  not  understand  what  she  was  asking,  else 
she  would  never  be  so  unreasonable,  so  unjust.  But  also 
he  saw  that  it  would  be  futile  to  attempt  to  make  her  under- 
stand. 

It  was  the  end.  Though  he  kill  Andr6-Louis  Moreau  in 
the  morning  as  he  fiercely  hoped  he  would,  yet  the  victory 
even  in  death  must  lie  with  Andr£-Louis  Moreau. 

He  bowed  profoundly,  grave  and  sorrowful  of  face  as  he 
was  grave  and  sorrowful  of  heart. 

"Mademoiselle,  my  homage,"  he  murmured,  and  turned 
to  go. 

Startled,  appalled,  she  stepped  back,  her  hand  pressed  to 
her  tortured  breast. 


Torn  Pride  321 

"But  you  have  not  answered  me!"  she  called  after  him  in 
terror. 

He  checked  on  the  threshold,  and  turned;  and  there  from 
the  cool  gloom  of  the  hall  she  saw  him  a  black,  graceful  sil- 
houette against  the  brilliant  sunshine  beyond  —  a  memory 
of  him  that  was  to  cling  as  something  sinister  and  menacing 
in  the  dread  hours  that  were  to  follow. 

"What  would  you,  mademoiselle?  I  but  spared  myself 
arid  you  the  pain  of  a  refusal." 

He  was  gone  leaving  her  crushed  and  raging.  She  sank 
down  again  into  the  great  red  chair,  and  sat  there  crumpled, 
her  elbows  on  the  table,  her  face  in  her  hands  —  a  face  that 
was  on  fire  with  shame  and  passion.  She  had  offered  herself, 
and  she  had  been  refused!  The  inconceivable  had  befallen 
her.  The  humiliation  of  it  seemed  to  her  something  that 
could  never  be  effaced. 


CHAPTER  X 
THE  RETURNING  CARRIAGE 

M.  DE  KERCADIOU  wrote  a  letter. 

"Godson,"  he  began,  without  any  softening  adjective,  "I 
have  learnt  with  pain  and  indignation  that  you  have  dis- 
honoured yourself  again  by  breaking  the  pledge  you  gave 
me  to  abstain  from  politics.  With  still  greater  pain  and  in- 
dignation do  I  learn  that  your  name  has  become  in  a  few 
short  days  a  byword,  that  you  have  discarded  the  weapon 
of  false,  insidious  arguments  against  my  class  —  the  class 
to  which  you  owe  everything  —  for  the  sword  of  the  as- 
sassin. It  has  come  to  my  knowledge  that  you  have  an  as- 
signation to-morrow  with  my  good  friend  M.  de  La  Tour 
d'Azyr.  A  gentleman  of  his  station  is  under  certain  obliga- 
tions imposed  upon  him  by  his  birth,  which  do  not  permit 
him  to  draw  back  from  an  engagement.  But  you  labour 
under  no  such  disadvantages.  For  a  man  of  your  class  to 
refuse  an  engagement  of  honour,  or  to  neglect  it  when  made, 
entails  no  sacrifice.  Your  peers  will  probably  be  of  the 
opinion  that  you  display  a  commendable  prudence.  There- 
fore I  beg  you,  indeed,  did  I  think  that  I  still  exercise  over 
you  any  such  authority  as  the  favours  you  have  received 
from  me  should  entitle  me  to  exercise,  I  would  command  you, 
to  allow  this  matter  to  go  no  farther,  and  to  refrain  from 
rendering  yourself  to  your  assignation  to-morrow  morning. 
Having  no  such  authority,  as  your  past  conduct  now  makes 
clear,  having  no  reason  to  hope  that  a  proper  sentiment  of 
gratitude  to  me  will  induce  to  give  heed  to  this  my  most 
earnest  request,  I  am  compelled  to  add  that  should  you  sur- 
vive to-morrow's  encounter,  I  can  in  no  circumstances  ever 
again  permit  myself  to  be  conscious  of  your  existence.  If 
any  spark  survives  of  the  affection  that  once  you  expressed 


The  Returning  Carnage  323 

for  me,  or  if  you  set  any  value  upon  the  affection,  which,  in 
spite  of  all  that  you  have  done  to  forfeit  it,  is  the  chief 
prompter  of  this  letter,  you  will  not  refuse  to  do  as  I  am 
asking." 

It  was  not  a  tactful  letter.  M.  de  Kercadiou  was  not  a 
tactful  man.  Read  it  as  he  would,  Andr6-Louis  —  when  it 
was  delivered  to  him  on  that  Sunday  afternoon  by  the  groom 
dispatched  with  it  into  Paris  —  could  read  into  it  only  con- 
cern for  M.  La  Tour  d'Azyr,  M.  de  Kercadiou's  good  friend, 
as  he  called  him,  and  prospective  nephew-in-law. 

He  kept  the  groom  waiting  a  full  hour  while  composing 
his  answer.  Brief  though  it  was,  it  cost  him  very  consid- 
erable effort  and  several  unsuccessful  attempts.  In  the 
end  this  is  what  he  wrote: 

Monsieur  my  godfather  —  You  make  refusal  singularly  hard  for 
me  when  you  appeal  to  me  upon  the  ground  of  affection.  It  is  a 
thing  of  which  all  my  life  I  shall  hail  the  opportunity  to  give  you 
proofs,  and  I  am  therefore  desolated  beyond  anything  I  could  hope 
to  express  that  I  cannot  give  you  the  proof  you  ask  to-day.  There  is 
too  much  between  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr  and  me.  Also  you  do  me 
and  my  class  —  whatever  it  may  be  —  less  than  justice  when  you 
say  that  obligations  of  honour  are  not  binding  upon  us.  So  binding 
do  I  count  them,  that,  if  I  would,  I  could  not  now  draw  back. 

If  hereafter  you  should  persist  in  the  harsh  intention  you  express, 
I  must  suffer  it.  That  I  shall  suffer  be  assured. 

Your  affectionate  and  grateful  godson 

ANDRE-LOUIS 

He  dispatched  that  letter  by  M.  de  Kercadiou's  groom, 
and  conceived  this  to  be  the  end  of  the  matter.  It  cut  him 
keenly;  but  he  bore  the  wound  with  that  outward  stoicism 
he  affected. 

Next  morning,  at  a  quarter  past  eight,  as  with  Le  Cha- 
pelier — who  had  come  to  break  his  fast  with  him  —  he  was 
rising  from  table  to  set  out  for  the  Bois,  his  housekeeper 
startled  him  by  announcing  Mademoiselle  de  Kercadiou. 

He  looked  at  his  watch.  Although  his  cabriolet  was  al- 
ready at  the  door,  he  had  a  few  minutes  to  spare.  He  ex- 


324  The  Sword 


cused  himself  from  Le  Chapelier,  and  went  briskly  out  to  the 
anteroom. 

She  advanced  to  meet  him,  her  manner  eager,  almost 
feverish. 

"I  will  not  affect  ignorance  of  why  you  have  come,"  he 
said  quickly,  to  make  short  work.  "But  time  presses,  and 
I  warn  you  that  only  the  most  solid  of  reasons  can  be  worth 
stating." 

It  surprised  her.  It  amounted  to  a  rebuff  at  the  very  out- 
set, before  she  had  uttered  a  word;  and  that  was  the  last 
thing  she  had  expected  from  Andre-Louis.  Moreover,  there 
was  about  him  an  air  of  aloofness  that  was  unusual  where 
she  was  concerned,  and  his  voice  had  been  singularly  cold 
and  formal. 

It  wounded  her.  She  was  not  to  guess  the  conclusion  to 
which  he  had  leapt.  He  made  with  regard  to  her  —  as  was 
but  natural,  after  all  —  the  same  mistake  that  he  had  made 
with  regard  to  yesterday's  letter  from  his  godfather.  He 
conceived  that  the  mainspring  of  action  here  was  solely  con- 
cern for  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr.  That  it  might  be  concern 
for  himself  never  entered  his  mind.  So  absolute  was  his  own 
conviction  of  what  must  be  the  inevitable  issue  of  that 
meeting  that  he  could  not  conceive  of  any  one  entertaining 
a  fear  on  his  behalf. 

What  he  assumed  to  be  anxiety  on  the  score  of  the  pre- 
destined victim  had  irritated  him  in  M.  de  Kercadiou;  in 
Aline  it  filled  him  with  a  cold  anger ;  he  argued  from  it  that 
she  had  hardly  been  frank  with  him;  that  ambition  was 
urging  her  to  consider  with  favour  the  suit  of  M.  de  La  Tour 
d'Azyr.  And  than  this  there  was  no  spur  that  could  have 
driven  more  relentlessly  in  his  purpose,  since  to  save  her 
was  in  his  eyes  almost  as  momentous  as  to  avenge  the  past. 

She  conned  him  searchingly,  and  the  complete  calm  of 
him  at  such  a  time  amazed  her.  She  could  not  repress  the 
mention  of  it. 

"How  calm  you  are,  Andr6!" 

"I  am  not  easily  disturbed.    It  is  a  vanity  of  mine." 


The  Returning  Carriage  325 

"But .  .  .  Oh,  Andr6,  this  meeting  must  not  take  place!" 
She  came  close  up  to  him,  to  set  her  hands  upon  his  shoul- 
ders, and  stood  so,  her  face  within  a  foot  of  his  own. 

"  You  know,  of  course,  of  some  good  reason  why  it  should 
not?"  said  he. 

"You  may  be  killed,"  she  answered  him,  and  her  eyes 
dilated  as  she  spoke. 

It  was  so  far  from  anything  that  he  had  expected  that 
for  a  moment  he  could  only  stare  at  her.  Then  he  thought 
he  had  understood.  He  laughed  as  he  removed  her  hands 
from  his  shoulders,  and  stepped  back.  This  was  a  shallow 
device,  childish  and  unworthy  in  her. 

"  Can  you  really  think  to  prevail  by  attempting  to  frighten 
me?"  he  asked,  and  almost  sneered. 

"Oh,  you  are  surely  mad!  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr  is 
reputed  the  most  dangerous  sword  in  France." 

"Have  you  never  noticed  that  most  reputations  are  un- 
deserved? Chabrillane  was  a  dangerous  swordsman,  and 
Chabrillane  is  underground.  La  Motte-Royau  was  an  even 
more  dangerous  swordsman,  and  he  is  in  a  surgeon's  hands. 
So  are  the  other  spadassinicides  who  dreamt  of  skewering  a 
poor  sheep  of  a  provincial  lawyer.  And  here  to-day  comes 
the  chief,  the  fine  flower  of  these  bully-swordsmen.  He 
comes,  for  wages  long  overdue.  Be  sure  of  that.  So  if  you 
have  no  other  reason  to  urge  ..." 

It  was  the  sarcasm  of  him  that  mystified  her.  Could  he 
possibly  be  sincere  in  his  assurance  that  he  must  prevail 
against  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr?  To  her  in  her  limited 
knowledge,  her  mind  filled  with  her  uncle's  contrary  con- 
viction, it  seemed  that  Andre-Louis  was  only  acting;  he 
would  act  a  part  to  the  very  end. 

Be  that  as  it  might,  she  shifted  her  ground  to  answer 
him. 

"You  had  my  uncle's  letter?" 

"And  I  answered  it." 

"  I  know.  But  what  he  said,  he  will  fulfil.  Do  not  dream 
that  he  will  relent  if  you  carry  out  this  horrible  purpose." 


326  The  Sword 


"Come,  now,  that  is  a  better  reason  than  the  other,"  said 
he.  "  If  there  is  a  reason  in  the  world  that  could  move  me  it 
would  be  that.  But  there  is  too  much  between  La  Tour 
d'Azyr  and  me.  There  is  an  oath  I  swore  on  the  dead  hand  of 
Philippe  de  Vilmorin.  I  could  never  have  hoped  that  God 
would  afford  me  so  great  an  opportunity  of  keeping  it." 

"You  have  not  kept  it  yet,"  she  warned  him. 

He  smiled  at  her.  "True!"  he  said.  "But  nine  o'clock 
will  soon  be  here.  Tell  me,"  he  asked  her  suddenly,  "why 
did  you  not  carry  this  request  of  yours  to  M.  de  La  Tour 
d'Azyr?  " 

"  I  did,"  she  answered  him,  and  flushed  as  she  remembered 
her  yesterday's  rejection.  He  interpreted  the  flush  quite 
otherwise. 

"And  he?  "he  asked. 

"M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr's  obligations  ..."  she  was  be- 
ginning: then  she  broke  off  to  answer  shortly:  "Oh,  he  re- 
fused." 

"So,  so.  He  must,  of  course,  whatever  it  may  have  cost 
him.  Yet  in  his  place  I  should  have  counted  the  cost  as 
nothing.  But  men  are  different,  you  see."  He  sighed.  "Also 
in  your  place,  had  that  been  so,  I  think  I  should  have  left 
the  matter  there.  But  then  ..." 

"I  don't  understand  you,  Andr6." 

"I  am  not  so  very  obscure.  Not  nearly  so  obscure  as  I  can 
be.  Turn  it  over  in  your  mind.  It  may  help  to  comfort  you 
presently."  He  consulted  his  watch  again.  "Pray  use  this 
house  as  your  own.  I  must  be  going." 

Le  Chapelier  put  his  head  in  at  the  door. 

"Forgive  the  intrusion.  But  we  shall  be  late,  Andr6,  un- 
less you  ..." 

"Coming,"  Andr6  answered  him.  "If  you  will  await  my 
return,  Aline,  you  will  oblige  me  deeply.  Particularly  in  view 
of  your  uncle's  resolve." 

She  did  not  answer  him.  She  was  numbed.  He  took  her 
silence  for  assent,  and,  bowing,  left  her.  Standing  there 
she  heard  his  steps  going  down  the  stairs  together  with 


The  Returning  Carriage  327 

Le  Chapelier's.  He  was  speaking  to  his  friend,  and  his  voice 
was  calm  and  normal. 

Oh,  he  was  mad  —  blinded  by  self-confidence  and  vanity. 
As  his  carriage  rattled  away,  she  sat  down  limply,  with  a 
sense  of  exhaustion  and  nausea.  She  was  sick  and  faint  with 
horror.  Andre-Louis  was  going  to  his  death.  Conviction  of 
it  —  an  unreasoning  conviction,  the  result,  perhaps,  of  all 
M.  de  Kercadiou's  rantings  —  entered  her  soul.  Awhile  she 
sat  thus,  paralyzed  by  hopelessness.  Then  she  sprang  up 
again,  wringing  her  hands.  She  must  do  something  to  avert 
this  horror.  But  what  could  she  do?  To  follow  him  to  the 
Bois  and  intervene  there  would  be  to  make  a  scandal  for  no 
purpose.  The  conventions  of  conduct  were  all  against  her, 
offering  a  barrier  that  was  not  to  be  overstepped.  Was  there 
no  one  could  help  her? 

Standing  there,  half -frenzied  by  her  helplessness,  she 
caught  again  a  sound  of  vehicles  and  hooves  on  the  cobbles 
of  the  street  below.  A  carriage  was  approaching.  It  drew 
up  with  a  clatter  before  the  fencing-academy.  Could  it  be 
Andr£-Louis  returning?  Passionately  she  snatched  at  that 
straw  of  hope.  Knocking,  loud  and  urgent,  fell  upon  the 
door.  She  heard  Andr6-Louis'  housekeeper,  her  wooden 
shoes  clanking  upon  the  stairs,  hurrying  down  to  open. 

She  sped  to  the  door  of  the  anteroom,  and  pulling  it  wide 
stood  breathlessly  to  listen.  But  the  voice  that  floated  up  to 
her  was  not  the  voice  she  so  desperately  hoped  to  hear.  It 
was  a  woman's  voice  asking  in  urgent  tones  for  M.  Andr£- 
Louis  —  a  voice  at  first  vaguely  familiar,  then  clearly  recog- 
nized, the  voice  of  Mme.  de  Plougastel. 

Excited,  she  ran  to  the  head  of  the  narrow  staircase  in 
time  to  hear  Mme.  de  Plougastel  exclaim  in  agitation : 

"He  has  gone  already!  Oh,  but  how  long  since?  Which 
way  did  he  take?" 

It  was  enough  to  inform  Aline  that  Mme.  de  Plougastel's 
errand  must  be  akin  to  her  own.  At  the  moment,  in  the 
general  distress  and  confusion  of  her  mind,  her  mental  vision 
focussed  entirely  on  the  one  vital  point,  she  found  in  this  no 


328  The  Sword 


matter  for  astonishment.  The  singular  regard  conceived  by 
Mme.  de  Plougastel  for  Andre-Louis  seemed  to  her  then  a 
sufficient  explanation. 

Without  pausing  to  consider,  she  ran  down  that  steep 
staircase,  calling: 

"Madame!  Madame!" 

The  portly,  comely  housekeeper  drew  aside,  and  the  two 
ladies  faced  each  other  on  that  threshold.  Mme.  de  Plou- 
gastel looked  white  and  haggard,  a  nameless  dread  staring 
from  her  eyes. 

"Aline!  You  here!"  she  exclaimed.  And  then  in  the  ur- 
gency sweeping  aside  all  minor  considerations,  "Were  you 
also  too  late?"  she  asked. 

"  No,  madame.  I  saw  him.  I  implored  him.  But  he  would 
not  listen." 

"Oh,  this  is  horrible!"  Mme.  de  Plougastel  shuddered  as 
she  spoke.  "  I  heard  of  it  only  half  an  hour  ago,  and  I  came 
at  once,  to  prevent  it  at  all  costs." 

The  two  women  looked  blankly,  despairingly,  at  each 
other.  In  the  sunshine-flooded  street  one  or  two  shabby 
idlers  were  pausing  to  eye  the  handsome  equipage  with  its 
magnificent  bay  horses,  and  the  two  great  ladies  on  the  door- 
step of  the  fencing-academy.  From  across  the  way  came  the 
raucous  voice  of  an  itinerant  bellows-mender  raised  in  the 
cry  of  his  trade: 

"A  raccommoder  les  vieux  souflflets!" 

Madame  swung  to  the  housekeeper. 

"How  long  is  it  since  monsieur  left?" 

"Ten  minutes,  maybe;  hardly  more."  Conceiving  these 
great  ladies  to  be  friends  of  her  invincible  master's  latest 
victim,  the  good  woman  preserved  a  decently  stolid  ex- 
terior. 

Madame  wrung  her  hands.  "Ten  minutes!  Oh!"  It  was 
almost  a  moan.  "Which  way  did  he  go?" 

"The  assignation  is  for  nine  o'clock  in  the  Bois  de  Bou- 
logne," Aline  informed  her.  "Could  we  follow?  Could  we 
prevail  if  we  did?" 


The  Returning  Carriage  329 

"Ah,  my  God!  The  question  is  should  we  come  in  time? 
At  nine  o'clock!  And  it  wants  but  little  more  than  a  quarter 
of  an  hour.  Mon  Dieu!  MonDieu!"  Madame  clasped  and 
unclasped  her  hands  in  anguish.  "Do  you  know,  at  least, 
where  in  the  Bois  they  are  to  meet?" 

"No  —  only  that  it  is  in  the  Bois." 

"In  the  Bois!"  Madame  was  flung  into  a  frenzy.  "The 
Bois  is  nearly  half  as  large  as  Paris."  But  she  swept  breath- 
lessly on,  "Come,  Aline:  get  in,  get  in!" 

Then  to  her  coachman.  "To  the  Bois  de  Boulogne  by  way 
of  the  Cours  la  Reine,"  she  commanded,  "as  fast  as  you  can 
drive.  There  are-ten  pistoles  for  you  if  we  are  in  time.  Whip 
up,  man!" 

She  thrust  Aline  into  the  carriage,  and  sprang  after  her 
with  the  energy  of  a  girl.  The  heavy  vehicle  —  too  heavy  by 
far  for  this  race  with  time  —  was  moving  before  she  had 
taken  her  seat.  Rocking  and  lurching  it  went,  earning  the 
maledictions  of  more  than  one  pedestrian  whom  it  narrowly 
avoided  crushing  against  a  wall  or  trampling  underfoot. 

Madame  sat  back  with  closed  eyes  and  trembling  lips. 
Her  face  showed  very  white  and  drawn.  Aline  watched  her 
in  silence.  Almost  it  seemed  to  her  that  Mme.  de  Plougastel 
was  suffering  as  deeply  as  herself,  enduring  an  anguish  of 
apprehension  as  great  as  her  own. 

Later  Aline  was  to  wonder  at  this.  But  at  the  moment  all 
the  thought  of  which  her  half-numbed  mind  was  capable  was 
bestowed  upon  their  desperate  errand. 

The  carriage  rolled  across  the  Place  Louis  XV  and  out  on 
to  the  Cours  la  Reine  at  last.  Along  that  beautiful,  tree- 
bordered  avenue  between  the  Champs  jfelysees  and  the 
Seine,  almost  empty  at  this  hour  of  the  day,  they  made  bet- 
ter speed,  leaving  now  a  cloud  of  dust  behind  them. 

But  fast  to  danger-point  as  was  the  speed,  to  the  women 
in  that  carriage  it  was  too  slow.  As  they  reached  the  barrier 
at  the  end  of  the  Cours,  nine  o'clock  was  striking  in  the  city 
behind  them,  and  every  stroke  of  it  seemed  to  sound  a  note 
of  doom. 


330  The  Sword 


Yet  here  at  the  barrier  the  regulations  compelled  a  mo- 
mentary halt.  Aline  enquired  of  the  sergeant-in-charge  how 
long  it  was  since  a  cabriolet  such  as  she  described  had  gone 
that  way.  She  was  answered  that  some  twenty  minutes 
ago  a  vehicle  had  passed  the  barrier  containing  the  deputy 
M.  le  Chapelier  and  the  Paladin  of  the  Third  Estate,  M. 
Moreau.  The  sergeant  was  very  well  informed.  He  could 
make  a  shrewd  guess,  he  said,  with  a  grin,  of  the  business 
that  took  M.  Moreau  that  way  so  early  in  the  day. 

They  left  him,  to  speed  on  now  through  the  open  country, 
following  the  road  that  continued  to  hug  the  river.  They 
sat  back  mutely  despairing,  staring  hopelessly  ahead^Aline's 
hand  clasped  tight  in  madame's.  In  the  distance,  across  the 
meadows  on  their  right,  they  could  see  already  the  long, 
dusky  line  of  trees  of  the  Bois,  and  presently  the  carriage 
swung  aside  following  a  branch  of  the  road  that  turned  to 
the  right,  away  from  the  river  and  heading  straight  for  the 
forest. 

Mademoiselle  broke  at  last  the  silence  of  hopelessness 
that  had  reigned  between  them  since  they  had  passed  the 
barrier. 

"Oh,  it  is  impossible  that  we  should  come  in  time!  Im- 
possible!" 

"Don't  say  it!  Don't  say  it!"  madame  cried  out. 

"But  it  is  long  past  nine,  madame!  Andr6  would  be  punc- 
tual, and  these  .  .  .  affairs  do  not  take  long.  It  ...  it  will  be 
all  over  by  now." 

Madame  shivered,  and  closed  her  eyes.  Presently,  how- 
ever, she  opened  them  again,  and  stirred.  Then  she  put  her 
head  from  the  window.  "A  carriage  is  approaching,"  she 
announced,  and  her  tone  conveyed  the  thing  she  feared. 

"Not  already!  Oh,  not  already!"  Thus  Aline  expressed 
the  silently  communicated  thought.  She  experienced  a 
difficulty  in  breathing,  felt  the  sudden  need  of  air.  Some- 
thing in  her  throat  was  throbbing  as  if  it  would  suffocate 
her;  a  mist  came  and  went  before  her  eyes. 

In  a  cloud  of  dust  an  open  caleche  was  speeding  towards 


The  Returning  Carriage  331 

them,  coming  from  the  Bois.  They  watched  it,  both  pale, 
neither  venturing  to  speak,  Aline,  indeed,  without  breath  to 
do  so. 

As  it  approached,  it  slowed  down,  perforce,  as  they  did,  to 
effect  a  safe  passage  in  that  narrow  road.  Aline  was  at  the 
window  with  Mme.  de  Plougastel,  and  with  fearful  eyes 
both  looked  into  this  open  carriage  that  was  drawing  abreast 
of  them. 

"Which  of  them  is  it,  madame?  Oh,  which  of  them?" 
gasped  Aline,  scarce  daring  to  look,  her  senses  swimming. 

On  the  near  side  sat  a  swarthy  young  gentleman  unknown 
to  either  of  the  ladies.  He  was  smiling  as  he  spoke  to  his 
companion.  A  moment  later  and  the  man  sitting  beyond 
came  into  view.  He  was  not  smiling.  His  face  was  white  and 
set,  and  it  was  the  face  of  the  Marquis  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr. 

For  a  long  moment,  in  speechless  horror,  both  women 
stared  at  him,  until,  perceiving  them,  blankest  surprise  in- 
vaded his  stern  face. 

In  that  moment,  with  a  long  shuddering  sigh  Aline  sank 
swooning  to  the  carriage  floor  behind  Mme.  de  Plougastel. 


CHAPTER  XI 
INFERENCES 

BY  fast  driving  Andr6-Louis  had  reached  the  ground  some 
minutes  ahead  of  time,  notwithstanding  the  slight  delay  in 
setting  out.  There  he  had  found  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr 
already  awaiting  him,  supported  by  a  M.  d'Ormesson,  a 
swarthy  young  gentleman  in  the  blue  uniform  of  a  captain 
in  the  Gardes  du  Corps. 

Andr6-Louis  had  been  silent  and  preoccupied  throughout 
that  drive.  He  was  perturbed  by  his  last  interview  with 
Mademoiselle  de  Kercadiou  and  the  rash  inferences  which 
he  had  drawn  as  to  her  motives. 

"Decidedly,"  he  had  said,  "this  man  must  be  killed." 

Le  Chapelier  had  not  answered  him.  Almost,  indeed,  had 
the  Breton  shuddered  at  his  compatriot's  cold-bloodedness. 
He  had  often  of  late  thought  that  this  fellow  Moreau  was 
hardly  human.  Also  he  had  found  him  incomprehensibly 
inconsistent.  When  first  this  spadassinicide  business  had 
been  proposed  to  him,  he  had  been  so  very  lofty  and  dis- 
dainful. Yet,  having  embraced  it,  he  went  about  it  at  times 
with  a  ghoulish  flippancy  that  was  revolting,  at  times  with  a 
detachment  that  was  more  revolting  still. 

Their  preparations  were  made  quickly  and  in  silence,  yet 
without  undue  haste  or  other  sign  of  nervousness  on  either 
side.  In  both  men  the  same  grim  determination  prevailed. 
The  opponent  must  be  killed ;  there  could  be  no  half-meas- 
ures here.  Stripped  each  of  coat  and  waistcoat,  shoeless  and 
with  shirt-sleeves  rolled  to  the  elbow,  they  faced  each  other 
at  last,  with  the  common  resolve  of  paying  in  full  the  long 
score  that  stood  between  them.  I  doubt  if  either  of  them  en- 
tertained a  misgiving  as  to  what  must  be  the  issue. 

Beside  them,  and  opposite  each  other,  stood  Le  Chapelier 
and  the  young  captain,  alert  and  watchful. 


Inferences  333 

"Allez,  messieurs!" 

The  slender,  wickedly  delicate  blades  clashed  together, 
and  after  a  momentary  glizade  were  whirling,  swift  and 
bright  as  lightnings,  and  almost  as  impossible  to  follow  with 
the  eye.  The  Marquis  led  the  attack,  impetuously  and 
vigorously,  and  almost  at  once  Andre-Louis  realized  that 
he  had  to  deal  with  an  opponent  of  a  very  different  mettle 
from  those  successive  duellists  of  last  week,  not  excluding 
La  Motte-Royau,  of  terrible  reputation. 

Here  was  a  man  whom  much  and  constant  practice  had 
given  extraordinary  speed  and  a  technique  that  was  almost 
perfect.  In  addition,  he  enjoyed  over  Andre-Louis  physical 
advantages  of  strength  and  length  of  reach,  which  rendered 
him  altogether  formidable.  And  he  was  cool,  too;  cool  and 
self-contained;  fearless  and  purposeful.  Would  anything 
shake  that  calm,  wondered  Andr6-Louis? 

He  desired  the  punishment  to  be  as  full  as  he  could  make 
it.  Not  content  to  kill  the  Marquis  as  the  Marquis  had 
killed  Philippe,  he  desired  that  he  should  first  know  himself 
as  powerless  to  avert  that  death  as  Philippe  had  been. 
Nothing  less  would  content  Andre-Louis.  M.  le  Marquis 
must  begin  by  tasting  of  that  cup  of  despair.  It  was  in  the 
account;  part  of  the  quittance  due. 

As  with  a  breaking  sweep  Andr6-Louis  parried  the  heavy 
lunge  in  which  that  first  series  of  passes  culminated,  he 
actually  laughed  —  gleefully,  after  the  fashion  of  a  boy  at  a 
sport  he  loves. 

That  extraordinary,  ill-timed  laugh  made  M.  de  La  Tour 
d'Azyr's  recovery  hastier  and  less  correctly  dignified  than  it 
would  otherwise  have  been.  It  startled  and  discomposed  him, 
who  had  already  been  discomposed  by  the  failure  to  get 
home  with  a  lunge  so  beautifully  timed  and  so  truly  deliv- 
ered. 

He,  too,  had  realized  that  his  opponent's  force  was  above 
anything  that  he  could  have  expected,  fencing-master 
though  he  might  be,  and  on  that  account  he  had  put  forth 
his  utmost  energy  to  make  an  end  at  once. 


334  The  Sword 


More  than  the  actual  parry,  the  laugh  by  which  it  was 
accompanied  seemed  to  make  of  that  end  no  more  than  a 
beginning.  And  yet  it  was  the  end  of  something.  It  was  the 
end  of  that  absolute  confidence  that  had  hitherto  inspired 
M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr.  He  no  longer  looked  upon  the  issue 
as  a  thing  forgone.  He  realized  that  if  he  was  to  prevail  in 
this  encounter,  he  must  go  warily  and  fence  as  he  had  never 
fenced  yet  in  all  his  life. 

They  settled  down  again;  and  again  —  on  the  principle 
this  time  that  the  soundest  defence  is  in  attack  —  it  was  the 
Marquis  who  made  the  game.  Andre-Louis  allowed  him  to 
do  so,  desired  him  to  do  so;  desired  him  to  spend  himself  and 
that  magnificent  speed  of  his  against  the  greater  speed  that 
whole  days  of  fencing  in  succession  for  nearly  two  years  had 
given  the  master.  With  a  beautiful,  easy  pressure  of  forte  on 
foible  Andre-Louis  kept  himself  completely  covered  in  that 
second  bout,  which  once  more  culminated  in  a  lunge. 

Expecting  it  now,  Andre-Louis  parried  it  by  no  more  than 
a  deflecting  touch.  At  the  same  moment  he  stepped  sud- 
denly forward,  right  within  the  other's  guard,  thus  placing 
his  man  so  completely  at  his  mercy  that,  as  if  fascinated, 
the  Marquis  did  not  even  attempt  to  recover  himself. 

This  time  Andre-Louis  did  not  laugh.  He  just  smiled  into 
the  dilating  eyes  of  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr,  and  made  no 
shift  to  use  his  advantage. 

"Come,  come,  monsieur!"  he  bade  him  sharply.  "Am  I 
to  run  my  blade  through  an  uncovered  man?"  Deliberately 
he  fell  back,  whilst  his  shaken  opponent  recovered  himself  at 
last. 

M.  d'Ormesson  released  the  breath  which  horror  had  for  a 
moment  caught.  Le  Chapelier  swore  softly,  muttering: 

"Name  of  a  name!  It  is  tempting  Providence  to  play  the 
fool  in  this  fashion!" 

Andr£-Louis  observed  the  ashen  pallor  that  now  over- 
spread the  face  of  his  opponent. 

"I  think  you  begin  to  realize,  monsieur,  what  Philippe  de 
Vilmorin  must  have  felt  that  day  at  Gavrillac.  I  desired 


Inferences  335 

that  you  should  first  do  so.  Since  that  is  accomplished,  why, 
here's  to  make  an  end." 

He  went  in  with  lightning  rapidity.  For  a  moment  his 
point  seemed  to  La  Tour  d'Azyr  to  be  everywhere  at  once, 
and  then  from  a  low  engagement  in  sixte,  Andre-Louis 
stretched  forward  with  swift  and  vigorous  ease  to  lunge  in 
tierce.  He  drove  his  point  to  transfix  his  opponent  whom  a 
series  of  calculated  disengages  uncovered  in  that  line.  But 
to  his  amazement  and  chagrin,  La  Tour  d'Azyr  parried  the 
stroke;  infinitely  more  to  his  chagrin  La  Tour  d'Azyr  parried 
it  just  too  late.  Had  he  completely  parried  it,  all  would  yet 
have  been  well.  But  striking  the  blade  in  the  last  fraction  of 
a  second,  the  Marquis  deflected  the  point  from  the  line  of  his 
body,  yet  not  so  completely  but  that  a  couple  of  feet  of  that 
hard-driven  steel  tore  through  the  muscles  of  his  sword-arm. 

To  the  seconds  none  of  these  details  had  been  visible.  All 
that  they  had  seen  had  been  a  swift  whirl  of  flashing  blades, 
and  then  Andr6-Louis  stretched  almost  to  the  ground  in  an 
upward  lunge  that  had  pierced  the  Marquis'  right  arm  just 
below  the  shoulder. 

The  sword  fell  from  the  suddenly  relaxed  grip  of  La  Tour 
d'Azyr's  fingers,  which  had  been  rendered  powerless,  and  he 
stood  now  disarmed,  his  lip  in  his  teeth,  his  face  white,  his 
chest  heaving,  before  his  opponent,  who  had  at  once  re- 
covered. With  the  blood-tinged  tip  of  his  sword  resting  on 
the  ground,  Andr£-Louis  surveyed  him  grimly,  as  we  survey 
the  prey  that  through  our  own  clumsiness  has  escaped  us  at 
the  last  moment. 

In  the  Assembly  and  in  the  newspapers  this  might  be 
hailed  as  another  victory  for  the  Paladin  of  the  Third  Es- 
tate; only  himself  could  know  the  extent  and  the  bitterness 
of  the  failure. 

M.  d'Ormesson  had  sprung  to  the  side  of  his  principal. 

"You  are  hurt!"  he  had  cried  stupidly. 

"It  is  nothing,"  said  La  Tour  d'Azyr.  "A  scratch."  But 
his  lip  writhed,  and  the  torn  sleeve  of  his  fine  cambric  shirt 
was  full  of  blood. 


336  The  Sword 


D'Ormesson,  a  practical  man  in  such  matters,  produced  a 
linen  kerchief,  which  he  tore  quickly  into  strips  to  improvise 
a  bandage. 

Still  Andr6-Louis  continued  to  stand  there,  looking  on  as 
if  bemused.  He  continued  so  until  Le  Chapelier  touched 
him  on  the  arm.  Then  at  last  he  roused  himself,  sighed,  and 
turned  away  to  resume  his  garments,  nor  did  he  address  or 
look  again  at  his  late  opponent,  but  left  the  ground  at  once. 

As,  with  Le  Chapelier,  he  was  walking  slowly  and  in 
silent  dejection  towards  the  entrance  of  the  Bois,  where  they 
had  left  their  carriage,  they  were  passed  by  the  caleche 
conveying  La  Tour  d'Azyr  and  his  second  —  which  had 
originally  driven  almost  right  up  to  the  spot  of  the  encounter. 
The  Marquis'  wounded  arm  was  carried  in  a  sling  impro- 
vised from  his  companion's  sword-belt.  His  sky-blue  coat 
with  three  collars  had  been  buttoned  over  this,  so  that  the 
right  sleeve  hung  empty.  Otherwise,  saving  a  certain  pallor, 
he  looked  much  his  usual  self. 

And  now  you  understand  how  it  was  that  he  was  the 
first  to  return,  and  that  seeing  him  thus  returning,  appar- 
ently safe  and  sound,  the  two  ladies,  intent  upon  preventing 
the  encounter,  should  have  assumed  that  their  worst  fears 
were  realized. 

Mme.  de  Plougastel  attempted  to  call  out,  but  her  voice 
refused  its  office.  She  attempted  to  throw  open  the  door  of 
her  own  carriage;  but  her  fingers  fumbled  clumsily  and  in- 
effectively with  the  handle.  And  meanwhile  the  caleche  was 
slowly  passing,  La  Tour  d'Azyr's  fine  eyes  sombrely  yet 
intently  meeting  her  own  anguished  gaze.  And  then  she 
saw  something  else.  M.  d'Ormesson,  leaning  back  again 
from  the  forward  inclination  of  his  body  to  join  his  own  to 
his  companion's  salutation  of  the  Countess,  disclosed  the 
empty  right  sleeve  of  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr's  blue  coat. 
More,  the  near  side  of  the  coat  itself  turned  back  from  the 
point  near  the  throat  where  it  was  caught  together  by  a 
single  button,  revealed  the  slung  arm  beneath  in  its  blood* 
sodden  cambric  sleeve, 


Inferences  337 

Even  now  she  feared  to  jump  to  the  obvious  conclusion  — • 
feared  lest  perhaps  the  Marquis,  though  himself  wounded, 
might  have  dealt  his  adversary  a  deadlier  wound. 

She  found  her  voice  at  last,  and  at  the  same  moment  sig- 
nalled to  the  driver  of  the  caleche  to  stop. 

As  it  was  pulled  to  a  standstill,  M.  d'Ormesson  alighted, 
and  so  met  madame  in  the  little  space  between  the  two 
carriages. 

"Where  is  M.  Moreau?"  was  the  question  with  which 
she  surprised  him. 

"Following  at  his  leisure,  no  doubt,  madame,"  he  an- 
swered, recovering. 

"He  is  not  hurt?" 

"Unfortunately  it  is  we  who  .  .  ."  M.  d'Ormesson  was 
beginning,  when  from  behind  him  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr's 
voice  cut  in  crisply: 

"This  interest  on  your  part  in  M.  Moreau,  dear  Count- 
ess .  .  ." 

He  broke  off,  observing  a  vague  challenge  in  the  air  with 
which  she  confronted  him.  But  indeed  his  sentence  did  not 
need  completing. 

There  was  a  vaguely  awkward  pause.  And  then  she  looked 
at  M.  d'Ormesson.  Her  manner  changed.  She  offered  what 
appeared  to  be  an  explanation  of  her  concern  for  M.  Moreau. 

"Mademoiselle  de  Kercadiou  is  with  me.  The  poor  child 
has  fainted." 

There  was  more,  a  deal  more,  she  would  have  said  just 
then,  but  for  M.  d'Ormesson's  presence. 

Moved  by  a  deep  solicitude  for  Mademoiselle  de  Ker- 
cadiou, de  La  Tour  d'Azyr  sprang  up  despite  his  wound. 

"I  am  in  poor  case  to  render  assistance,  madame,"  he 
said,  an  apologetic  smile  on  his  pale  face.  "But  .  .  ." 

With  the  aid  of  d'Ormesson,  and  in  spite  of  the  latter's 
protestations,  he  got  down  from  the  caleche,  which  then 
moved  on  a  little  way,  so  as  to  leave  the  road  clear  —  for 
another  carriage  that  was  approaching  from  the  direction 
of  the  Bois, 


338  The  Sword 


And  thus  it  happened  that  when  a  few  moments  later 
that  approaching  cabriolet  overtook  and  passed  the  halted 
vehicles,  Andr6-Louis  beheld  a  very  touching  scene.  Stand- 
ing up  to  obtain  a  better  view,  he  saw  Aline  in  a  half- 
swooning  condition  —  she  was  beginning  to  revive  by  now 
—  seated  in  the  doorway  of  the  carriage,  supported  by 
Mme.  de  Plougastel.  In  an  attitude  of  deepest  concern, 
M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr,  his  wound  notwithstanding,  was 
bending  over  the  girl,  whilst  behind  him  stood  M.  d'Or- 
messon  and  madame's  footman. 

The  Countess  looked  up  and  saw  him  as  he  was  driven 
past.  Her  face  lighted;  almost  it  seemed  to  him  she  was 
about  to  greet  him  or  to  call  him,  wherefore,  to  avoid  a  dif- 
ficulty, arising  out  of  the  presence  there  of  his  late  antag- 
onist, he  anticipated  her  by  bowing  frigidly  —  for  his  mood 
was  frigid,  the  more  frigid  by  virtue  of  what  he  saw  —  and 
then  resumed  his  seat  with  eyes  that  looked  deliberately 
ahead. 

Could  anything  more  completely  have  confirmed  him  in 
his  conviction  that  it  was  on  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr's 
account  that  Aline  had  come  to  plead  with  him  that  morn- 
ing? For  what  his  eyes  had  seen,  of  course,  was  a  lady  over- 
come with  emotion  at  the  sight  of  blood  of  her  dear  friend, 
and  that  same  dear  friend  restoring  her  with  assurances 
that  his  hurt  was  very  far  from  mortal.  Later,  much  later, 
he  was  to  blame  his  own  perverse  stupidity.  Almost  is  he 
too  severe  in  his  self-condemnation.  For  how  else  could  he 
have  interpreted  the  scene  he  beheld,  his  preconceptions 
being  what  they  were? 

That  which  he  had  already  been  suspecting,  he  now  ac- 
counted proven  to  him.  Aline  had  been  wanting  in  candour 
on  the  subject  of  her  feelings  towards  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr. 
It  was,  he  supposed,  a  woman's  way  to  be  secretive  in  such 
matters,  and  he  must  not  blame  her.  Nor  could  he  blame 
her  in  his  heart  for  having  succumbed  to  the  singular  charm 
of  such  a  man  as  the  Marquis  —  for  not  even  his  hostility 
could  blind  him  to  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr's  attractions. 


Inferences  339 

That  she  had  succumbed  was  betrayed,  he  thought,  by  the 
weakness  that  had  overtaken  her  upon  seeing  him  wounded. 

"My  God!"  he  cried  aloud.  "What  must  she  have  suf- 
fered, then,  if  I  had  killed  him  as  I  intended!" 

If  only  she  had  used  candour  with  him,  she  could  so  easily 
have  won  his  consent  to  the  thing  she  asked.  If  only  she 
had  told  him  what  now  he  saw,  that  she  loved  M.  de  La 
Tour  d'Azyr,  instead  of  leaving  him  to  assume  her  only 
regard  for  the  Marquis  to  be  based  on  unworthy  worldly 
ambition,  he  would  at  once  have  yielded. 

He  fetched  a  sigh,  and  breathed  a  prayer  for  forgiveness 
to  the  shade  of  Vilmorin. 

"  It  is  perhaps  as  well  that  my  lunge  went  wide,"  he  said. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  wondered  Le  Chapelier. 

"That  in  this  business  I  must  relinquish  all  hope  of  recom- 
mencing." 


CHAPTER  XII 
THE  OVERWHELMING  REASON 

M.  DE  LA  TOUR  D'AZYR  was  seen  no  more  in  the  Manage  — 
or  indeed  in  Paris  at  all  —  throughout  all  the  months  that 
the  National  Assembly  remained  in  session  to  complete  its 
work  of  providing  France  with  a  constitution.  After  all, 
though  the  wound  to  his  body  had  been  comparatively  slight, 
the  wound  to  such  a  pride  as  his  had  been  all  but  mortal. 

The  rumour  ran  that  he  had  emigrated.  But  that  was 
only  half  the  truth.  The  whole  of  it  was  that  he  had  joined 
that  group  of  noble  travellers  who  came  and  went  between 
the  Tuileries  and  the  headquarters  of  the  emigres  at  Co- 
blenz.  He  became,  in  short,  a  member  of  the  royalist  secret 
service  that  in  the  end  was  to  bring  down  the  monarchy 
in  ruins. 

As  for  Andre-Louis,  his  godfather's  house  saw  him  no 
more,  as  a  result  of  his  conviction  that  M.  de  Kercadiou 
would  not  relent  from  his  written  resolve  never  to  receive 
him  again  if  the  duel  were  fought. 

He  threw  himself  into  his  duties  at  the  Assembly  with  such 
zeal  and  effect  that  when  —  its  purpose  accomplished  —  the 
Constituent  was.  dissolved  in  September  of  the  following 
year,  membership  of  the  Legislative,  whose  election  followed 
immediately,  was  thrust  upon  him. 

He  considered  then,  like  many  others,  that  the  Revolution 
was  a  thing  accomplished,  that  France  had  only  to  govern 
herself  by  the  Constitution  which  had  been  given  her,  and 
that  all  would  now  be  well.  And  so  it  might  have  been  but 
that  the  Court  could  not  bring  itself  to  accept  the  altered 
state  of  things.  As  a  result  of  its  intrigues  half  Europe  was 
arming  to  hurl  herself  upon  France,  and  her  quarrel  was  the 
quarrel  of  the  French  King  with  his  people.  That  was  the 
horror  at  the  root  of  all  the  horrors  that  were  to  come. 


The  Overwhelming  Reason  341 

Of  the  counter-revolutionary  troubles  that  were  every- 
where being  stirred  up  by  the  clergy,  none  were  more  acute 
than  those  of  Brittany,  and,  in  view  of  the  influence  it  was 
hoped  he  would  wield  in  his  native  province,  it  was  proposed 
to  Andre-Louis  by  the  Commission  of  Twelve,  in  the  early 
days  of  the  Girondin  ministry,  that  he  should  go  thither  to 
combat  the  unrest.  He  was  desired  to  proceed  peacefully, 
but  his  powers  were  almost  absolute,  as  is  shown  by  the 
orders  he  carried  —  orders  enjoining  all  to  render  him  assist- 
ance and  warning  those  who  might  hinder  him  that  they 
would  do  so  at  their  peril. 

He  accepted  the  task,  and  he  was  one  of  the  five  plenipo- 
tentiaries despatched  on  the  same  errand  in  that  spring  of 
1792.  It  kept  him  absent  from  Paris  for  four  months  and 
might  have  kept  him  longer  but  that  at  the  beginning  of 
August  he  was  recalled.  More  imminent  than  any  trouble  in 
Brittany  was  the  trouble  brewing  in  Paris  itself;  when  the 
political  sky  was  blacker  than  it  had  been  since  '89.  Paris 
realized  that  the  hour  was  rapidly  approaching  which  would 
see  the  climax  of  the  long  struggle  between  Equality  and 
Privilege.  And  it  was  towards  a  city  so  disposed  that  Andre- 
Louis  came  speeding  from  the  West,  to  find  there  also  the 
climax  of  his  own  disturbed  career. 

Mile,  de  Kercadiou,  too,  was  in  Paris  in  those  days  of 
early  August,  on  a  visit  to  her  uncle's  cousin  and  dearest 
friend,  Mme.  de  Plougastel.  And  although  nothing  could 
now  be  plainer  than  the  seething  unrest  that  heralded  the 
explosion  to  come,  yet  the  air  of  gaiety,  indeed  of  jocularity, 
prevailing  at  Court —  whither  madame  and  mademoiselle 
went  almost  daily  —  reassured  them.  M.  de  Plougastel 
had  come  and  gone  again,  back  to  Coblenz  on  that  secret 
business  that  kept  him  now  almost  constantly  absent  from 
his  wife.  But  whilst  with  her  he  had  positively  assured  her 
that  all  measures  were  taken,  and  that  an  insurrection  was 
a  thing  to  be  welcomed,  because  it  could  have  one  only  con- 
clusion, the  final  crushing  of  the  Revolution  in  the  court- 
yard of  the  Tuileries.  That,  he  added,  was  why  the  King 


342  The  Sword 


remained  in  Paris.  But  for  his  confidence  in  that  he  would 
put  himself  in  the  centre  of  his  Swiss  and  his  knights  of  the 
dagger,  and  quit  the  capital.  They  would  hack  a  way  out 
for  him  easily  if  his  departure  were  opposed.  But  not  even 
that  would  be  necessary. 

Yet  in  those  early  days  of  August,  after  her  husband's 
departure  the  effect  of  his  inspiring  words  was  gradually 
dissipated  by  the  march  of  events  under  madame's  own 
eyes.  And  finally  on  the  afternoon  of  the  ninth,  there  ar- 
rived at  the  H6tel  Plougastel  a  messenger  from  Meudon 
bearing  a  note  from  M.  de  Kercadiou  in  which  he  urgently 
bade  mademoiselle  join  him  there  at  once,  and  advised  her 
hostess  to  accompany  her. 

You  may  have  realized  that  M.  de  Kercadiou  was  of 
those  who  make  friends  with  men  of  all  classes.  His  ancient 
lineage  placed  him  on  terms  of  equality  with  members  of 
the  noblesse ;  his  simple  manners  —  something  between  the 
rustic  and  the  bourgeois  —  and  his  natural  affability 
placed  him  on  equally  good  terms  with  those  who  by  birth 
were  his  inferiors.  In  Meudon  he  was  known  and  esteemed 
of  all  the  simple  folk,  and  it  was  Rougane,  the  friendly 
mayor,  who,  informed  on  the  Qth  of  August  of  the  storm 
that  was  brewing  for  the  morrow,  and  knowing  of  made- 
moiselle's absence  in  Paris,  had  warningly  advised  him  to 
withdraw  her  from  what  in  the  next  four-and-twenty  hours 
might  be  a  zone  of  danger  for  all  persons  of  quality,  par- 
ticularly those  suspected  of  connections  with  the  Court 
party. 

Now  there  was  no  doubt  whatever  of  Mme.  de  Plou- 
gastel's  connection  with  the  Court.  It  was  not  even  to  be 
doubted  —  indeed,  measure  of  proof  of  it  was  to  be  forth- 
coming —  that  those  vigilant  and  ubiquitous  secret  soci- 
eties that  watched  over  the  cradle  of  the  young  revolution 
were  fully  informed  of  the  frequent  journeyings  of  M.  de 
Plougastel  to  Coblenz,  and  entertained  no  illusions  on  the 
score  of  the  reason  for  them.  Given,  then,  a  defeat  of  the 
Court  party  in  the  struggle  that  was  preparing,  the  position 


The  Overwhelming  Reason  343 

in  Paris  of  Mme.  de  Plougastel  could  not  be  other  than 
fraught  with  danger,  and  that  danger  would  be  shared  by 
any  guest  of  birth  at  her  hdtel. 

M.  de  Kercadiou's  affection  for  both  those  women  quick- 
ened the  fears  aroused  in  him  by  Rougane's  warning.  Hence 
that  hastily  dispatched  note,  desiring  his  niece  and  im- 
ploring his  friend  to  come  at  once  to  Meudon. 

The  friendly  mayor  carried  his  complaisance  a  step 
farther,  and  dispatched  the  letter  to  Paris  by  the  hands  of 
his  own  son,  an  intelligent  lad  of  nineteen.  It  was  late  in 
the  afternoon  of  that  perfect  August  day  when  young 
Rougane  presented  himself  at  the  H6tel  Plougastel. 

He  was  graciously  received  by  Mme.  de  Plougastel  in 
the  salon,  whose  splendours,  when  combined  with  the  great 
air  of  the  lady  herself,  overwhelmed  the  lad's  simple,  un- 
sophisticated soul.  Madame  made  up  her  mind  at  once. 
M.  de  Kercadiou's  urgent  message  no  more  than  confirmed 
her  own  fears  and  inclinations.  She  decided  upon  instant 
departure. 

"Bien,  madame,"  said  the  youth.  "Then  I  have  the 
honour  to  take  my  leave." 

But  she  would  not  let  him  go.  First  to  the  kitchen  to 
refresh  himself,  whilst  she  and  mademoiselle  made  ready, 
and  then  a  seat  for  him  in  her  carriage  as  far  as  Meudon. 
She  could  not  suffer  him  to  return  on  foot  as  he  had  come. 

Though  in  all  the  circumstances  it  was  no  more  than  his 
due,  yet  the  kindliness  that  in  such  a  moment  of  agitation 
could  take  thought  for  another  was  presently  to  be  re- 
warded. Had  she  done  less  than  this,  she  would  have  known 
—  if  nothing  worse  —  at  least  some  hours  of  anguish  even 
greater  than  those  that  were  already  in  store  for  her. 

It  wanted,  perhaps,  a  half-hour  to  sunset  when  they  set 
out  in  her  carriage  with  intent  to  leave  Paris  by  the  Porte 
Saint-Martin.  They  travelled  with  a  single  footman  be- 
hind. Rougane  —  terrifying  condescension  —  was  given  a 
seat  inside  the  carriage  with  the  ladies,  and  proceeded  to 
fall  in  love  with  Mile,  de  Kercadiou,  whom  he  accounted 


344  The  Sword 


the  most  beautiful  being  he  had  ever  seen,  yet  who  talked 
to  him  simply  and  unaffectedly  as  with  an  equal.  The  thing 
went  to  his  head  a  little,  and  disturbed  certain  republican 
notions  which  he  had  hitherto  conceived  himself  to  have 
thoroughly  digested. 

The  carriage  drew  up  at  the  barrier,  checked  there  by  a 
picket  of  the  National  Guard  posted  before  the  iron  gates. 

The  sergeant  in  command  strode  to  the  door  of  the  ve- 
hicle. The  Countess  put  her  head  from  the  window. 

"The  barrier  is  closed,  madame,"  she  was  curtly  informed. 

"Closed!"  she  echoed.  The  thing  was  incredible.  "But 
.  .  .  but  do  you  mean  that  we  cannot  pass?" 

"Not  unless  you  have  a  permit,  madame."  The  sergeant 
leaned  nonchalantly  on  his  pike.  "The  orders  are  that  no 
one  is  to  leave  or  enter  without  proper  papers." 

"Whose  orders?" 

"Orders  of  the  Commune  of  Paris." 

"  But  I  must  go  into  the  country  this  evening."  Madame's 
voice  was  almost  petulant.  "I  am  expected." 

"In  that  case  let  madame  procure  a  permit." 

"Where  is  it  to  be  procured?" 

"At  the  H6tel  de  Ville  or  at  the  headquarters  of  madame's 
section." 

She  considered  a  moment.  "To  the  section,  then.  Be  so 
good  as  to  tell  my  coachman  to  drive  to  the  Bondy  Section." 

He  saluted  her  and  stepped  back.  "Section  Bondy,  Rue 
des  Morts,"  he  bade  the  driver. 

Madame  sank  into  her  seat  again,  in  a  state  of  agita- 
tion fully  shared  by  mademoiselle.  Rougane  set  himself  to 
pacify  and  reassure  them.  The  section  would  put  the  matter 
in  order.  They  would  most  certainly  be  accorded  a  permit. 
What  possible  reason  could  there  be  for  refusing  them?  A 
mere  formality,  after  all ! 

His  assurance  uplifted  them  merely  to  prepare  them  for 
a  still  more  profound  dejection  when  presently  they  met  with 
a  flat  refusal  from  the  president  of  the  section  who  received 
the  Countess. 


The  Overwhelming  Reason  .    345 

"Your  name,  madame?"  he  had  asked  brusquely.  A 
rude  fellow  of  the  most  advanced  republican  type,  he  had 
not  even  risen  out  of  deference  to  the  ladies  when  they  en- 
tered. He  was  there,  he  would  have  told  you,  to  perform 
the  duties  of  his  office,  not  to  give  dancing-lessons. 

"Plougastel,"  he  repeated  after  her,  without  title,  as  if 
it  had  been  the  name  of  a  butcher  or  baker.  He  took  down 
a  heavy  volume  from  a  shelf  on  his  right,  opened  it  and 
turned  the  pages.  It  was  a  sort  of  directory  of  his  section. 
Presently  he  found  what  he  sought.  "Comte  de  Plou- 
gastel, H6tel  Plougastel,  Rue  du  Paradis.  Is  that  it?" 

"That  is  correct,  monsieur,"  she  answered,  with  what 
civility  she  could  muster  before  the  fellow's  affronting 
rudeness. 

There  was  a  long  moment  of  silence,  during  which  he 
studied  certain  pencilled  entries  against  the  name.  The 
sections  had  been  working  in  the  last  few  weeks  much  more 
systematically  than  was  generally  suspected. 

"Your  husband  is  with  you,  madame?"  he  asked  curtly, 
his  eyes  still  conning  that  page. 

"M.  le  Comte  is  not  with  me,"  she  answered,  stressing 
the  title. 

"Not  with  you?"  He  looked  up  suddenly,  and  directed 
upon  her  a  glance  in  which  suspicion  seemed  to  blend  with 
derision.  "Where  is  he?" 

"He  is  not  in  Paris,  monsieur." 

"Ah!   Is  he  at  Coblenz,  do  you  think?" 

Madame  felt  herself  turning  cold.  There  was  something 
ominous  in  all  this.  To  what  end  had  the  sections  informed 
themselves  so  thoroughly  of  the  comings  and  goings  of  their 
inhabitants?  What  was  preparing?  She  had  a  sense  of  being 
trapped,  of  being  taken  in  a  net  that  had  been  cast  unseen. 

"I  do  not  know,  monsieur,"  she  said,  her  voice  unsteady. 

"Of  course  not."  He  seemed  to  sneer.  "No  matter.  And 
you  wish  to  leave  Paris  also?  Where  do  you  desire  to  go? " 

"To  Meudon." 

"Your  business  there?" 


346  The  Sword 


The  blood  leapt  to  her  face.  His  insolence  was  unbearable 
to  a  woman  who  in  all  her  life  had  never  known  anything 
but  the  utmost  deference  from  inferiors  and  equals  alike. 
Nevertheless,  realizing  that  she  was  face  to  face  with  forces 
entirely  new,  she  controlled  herself,  stifled  her  resentment, 
and  answered  steadily. 

"I  wish  to  conduct  this  lady,  Mile,  de  Kercadiou,  back 
to  her  uncle  who  resides  there." 

"  Is  that  all?  Another  day  will  do  for  that,  madame.  The 
matter  is  not  pressing." 

"Pardon,  monsieur,  to  us  the  matter  is  very  pressing." 

"You  have  not  convinced  me  of  it,  and  the  barriers  are 
closed  to  all  who  cannot  prove  the  most  urgent  and  satis- 
factory reasons  for  wishing  to  pass.  You  will  wait,  madame, 
until  the  restriction  is  removed.  Good-evening." 

"But,  monsieur  .  .  ." 

"Good-evening,  madame,"  he  repeated  significantly,  a 
dismissal  more  contemptuous  and  despotic  than  any  royal 
"You  have  leave  to  go." 

Madame  went  out  with  Aline.  Both  were  quivering  with 
the  anger  that  prudence  had  urged  them  to  suppress.  They 
climbed  into  the  coach  again,  desiring  to  be  driven  home. 

Rougane's  astonishment  turned  into  dismay  when  they 
told  him  what  had  taken  place.  "Why  not  try  the  H6tel 
de  Ville,  madame?"  he  suggested. 

"After  that?  It  would  be  useless.  We  must  resign  our- 
selves to  remaining  in  Paris  until  the  barriers  are  opened 
again." 

"Perhaps  it  will  not  matter  to  us  either  way  by  then, 
madame,"  said  Aline. 

"Aline!"  she  exclaimed  in  horror. 

"Mademoiselle!"  cried  Rougane  on  the  same  note.  And 
then,  because  he  perceived  that  people  detained  in  this 
fashion  must  be  in  some  danger  not  yet  discernible,  but 
on  that  account  more  dreadful,  he  set  his  wits  to  work.  As 
they  were  approaching  the  H6tel  Plougastel  once  more,  he 
announced  that  he  had  solved  the  problem. 


The  Overwhelming  Reason  347 

"A  passport  from  without  would  do  equally  well,"  he  an- 
nounced. "Listen,  now,  and  trust  to  me.  I  will  go  back  to 
Meudon  at  once.  My  father  shall  give  me  two  permits  — 
one  for  myself  alone,  and  another  for  three  persons  — 
from  Meudon  to  Paris  and  back  to  Meudon.  I  reenter 
Paris  with  my  own  permit,  which  I  then  proceed  to  destroy, 
and  we  leave  together,  we  three,  on  the  strength  of  the  other 
one,  representing  ourselves  as  having  come  from  Meudon 
in  the  course  of  the  day.  It  is  quite  simple,  after  all.  If  I 
go  at  once,  I  shall  be  back  to-night." 

"But  how  will  you  leave?"  asked  Aline. 

"I?  Pooh!  As  to  that,  have  no  anxiety.  My  father  is 
Mayor  of  Meudon.  There  are  plenty  who  know  him.  I  will 
go  to  the  H6tel  de  Ville,  and  tell  them  what  is,  after  all, 
true  —  that  I  am  caught  in  Paris  by  the  closing  of  the  bar- 
riers, and  that  my  father  is  expecting  me  home  this  evening. 
They  will  pass  me  through.  It  is  quite  simple." 

His  confidence  uplifted  them  again.  The  thing  seemed  as 
easy  as  he  represented  it. 

"Then  let  your  passport  be  for  four,  my  friend,"  madame 
begged  him.  "There  is  Jacques,"  she  explained,  indicating 
the  footman  who  had  just  assisted  them  to  alight. 

Rougane  departed  confident  of  soon  returning,  leaving 
them  to  await  him  with  the  same  confidence.  But  the  hours 
succeeded  one  another,  the  night  closed  in,  bedtime  came, 
and  still  there  was  no  sign  of  his  return. 

They  waited  until  midnight,  each  pretending  for  the 
other's  sake  to  a  confidence  fully  sustained,  each  invaded 
by  vague  premonitions  of  evil,  yet  beguiling  the  time  by 
playing  tric-trac  in  the  great  salon,  as  if  they  had  not  a 
single  anxious  thought  between  them. 

At  last  on  the  stroke  of  midnight,  madame  sighed  and 
rose. 

"It  will  be  for  to-morrow  morning,"  she  said,  not  be- 
lieving it. 

"Of  course,"  Aline  agreed.  "It  would  really  have  been 
impossible  for  him  to  have  returned  to-night.  And  it  will 


34$  The  Sword 


be  much  better  to  travel  to-morrow.  The  journey  at  so  late 
an  hour  would  tire  you  so  much,  dear  madame." 

Thus  they  made  pretence. 

Early  in  the  morning  they  were  awakened  by  a  din  of 
bells  —  the  tocsins  of  the  sections  ringing  the  alarm.  To 
their  startled  ears  came  later  the  rolling  of  drums,  and  at 
one  time  they  heard  the  sounds  of  a  multitude  on  the  march. 
Paris  was  rising.  Later  still  came  the  rattle  of  small-arms 
in  the  distance  and  the  deeper  boom  of  cannon.  Battle  was 
joined  between  the  men  of  the  sections  and  the  men  of  the 
Court.  The  people  in  arms  had  attacked  the  Tuileries. 
Wildest  rumours  flew  in  all  directions,  and  some  of  them 
found  their  way  through  the  servants  to  the  Hotel  Plou- 
gastel,  of  that  terrible  fight  for  the  palace  which  was  to  end 
in  the  purposeless  massacre  of  all  those  whom  the  inverte- 
brate monarch  abandoned  there,  whilst  placing  himself  and 
his  family  under  the  protection  of  the  Assembly.  Purpose- 
less to  the  end,  ever  adopting  the  course  pointed  out  to  him 
by  evil  counsellors,  he  prepared  for  resistance  only  until  the 
need  for  resistance  really  arose,  whereupon  he  ordered  a  sur- 
render which  left  those  who  had  stood  by  him  to  the  last 
at  the  mercy  of  a  frenzied  mob. 

And  while  this  was  happening  in  the  Tuileries,  the  two 
women  at  the  H6tel  Plougastel  still  waited  for  the  return 
of  Rougane,  though  now  with  ever-lessening  hope.  And 
Rougane  did  not  return.  The  affair  did  not  appear  so  simple 
to  the  father  as  to  the  son.  Rougane  the  elder  was  rightly 
afraid  to  lend  himself  to  such  a  piece  of  deception. 

He  went  with  his  son  to  inform  M.  de  Kercadiou  of  what 
had  happened,  and  told  him  frankly  of  the  thing  his  son 
suggested,  but  which  he  dared  not  do. 

M.  de  Kercadiou  sought  to  move  him  by  intercessions 
and  even  by  the  offer  of  bribes.  But  Rougane  remained 
firm. 

"Monsieur,"  he  said,  "if  it  were  discovered  against  me, 
as  it  inevitably  would  be,  I  should  hang  for  it.  Apart  from 
that,  and  in  spite  of  my  anxiety  to  do  all  in  my  power  to 


The  Overwhelming  Reason  349 

serve  you,  it  would  be  a  breach  of  trust  such  as  I  could  not 
contemplate.  You  must  not  ask  me,  monsieur." 

"But  what  do  you  conceive  is  going  to  happen?"  asked 
the  half -demented  gentleman. 

"  It  is  war,"  said  Rougane,  who  was  well  informed,  as  we 
have  seen.  "War  between  the  people  and  the  Court.  I 
am  desolated  that  my  warning  should  have  come  too  late. 
But,  when  all  is  said,  I  do  not  think  that  you  need  really 
alarm  yourself.  War  will  not  be  made  on  women." 

M .  de  Kercadiou  clung  for  comfort  to  that  assurance  after 
the  mayor  and  his  son  had  departed.  But  at  the  back  of  his 
mind  there  remained  the  knowledge  of  the  traffic  in  which 
M.  de  Plougastel  was  engaged.  What  if  the  revolutionaries 
were  equally  well  informed?  And  most  probably  they  were. 
The  women-folk  of  political  offenders  had  been  known  afore- 
time to  suffer  for  the  sins  of  their  men.  Anything  was  pos- 
sible in  a  popular  upheaval,  and  Aline  would  be  exposed 
jointly  with  Mme.  de  Plougastel. 

Late  that  night,  as  he  sat  gloomily  in  his  brother's  library, 
the  pipe  in  which  he  had  sought  solace  extinguished  between 
his  fingers,  there  came  a  sharp  knocking  at  the  door. 

To  the  old  seneschal  of  Gavrillac  who  went  to  open  there 
stood  revealed  upon  the  threshold  a  slim  young  man  in  a 
dark  olive  surcoat,  the  skirts  of  which  reached  down  to  his 
calves.  He  wore  boots,  buckskins,  and  a  small-sword,  and 
round  his  waist  there  was  a  tricolour  sash,  in  his  hat  a  tri- 
colour cockade,  which  gave  him  an  official  look  extremely 
sinister  to  the  eyes  of  that  old  retainer  of  feudalism,  who 
shared  to  the  full  his  master's  present  fears. 

"Monsieur  desires?"  he  asked,  between  respect  and  mis- 
trust. 

And  then  a  crisp  voice  startled  him. 

"  Why,  B£noit!  Name  of  a  name!  Have  you  completely 
forgotten  me?" 

With  a  shaking  hand  the  old  man  raised  the  lantern  he 
carried  so  as  to  throw  its  light  more  fully  upon  that  lean, 
wide-mouthed  countenance. 


350  The  Sword 


"M.Andre!  "he  cried.  "M.Andre!"  And  then  he  looked 
at  the  sash  and  the  cockade,  and  hesitated,  apparently  at  a 
loss. 

But  Andre-Louis  stepped  past  him  into  the  wide  vestibule, 
with  its  tessellated  floor  of  black-and-white  marble. 

"  If  my  godfather  has  not  yet  retired,  take  me  to  him.  If 
he  has  retired,  take  me  to  him  all  the  same." 

"Oh,  but  certainly,  M.  Andr6  —  and  I  am  sure  he  will 
be  ravished  to  see  you.  No,  he  has  not  yet  retired.  This 
way,  M.  Andre;  this  way,  if  you  please." 

The  returning  Andre-Louis,  reaching  Meudon  a  half-hour 
ago,  had  gone  straight  to  the  mayor  for  some  definite  news 
of  what  might  be  happening  in  Paris  that  should  either 
confirm  or  dispel  the  ominous  rumours  that  he  had  met  in 
ever-increasing  volume  as  he  approached  the  capital.  Rou- 
gane  informed  him  that  insurrection  was  imminent,  that 
already  the  sections  had  possessed  themselves  of  the  bar- 
riers, and  that  it  was  impossible  for  any  person  not  fully 
accredited  to  enter  or  leave  the  city. 

Andre-Louis  bowed  his  head,  his  thoughts  of  the  gravest. 
He  had  for  some  time  perceived  the  danger  of  this  second 
revolution  from  within  the  first,  which  might  destroy  every- 
thing that  had  been  done,  and  give  the  reins  of  power  to  a 
villainous  faction  that  would  plunge  the  country  into  an- 
archy. The  thing  he  had  feared  was  more  than  ever  on  the 
point  of  taking  place.  He  would  go  on  at  once,  that  very 
night,  and  see  for  himself  what  was  happening. 

And  then,  as  he  was  leaving,  he  turned  again  to  Rougane 
to  ask  if  M.  de  Kercadiou  was  still  at  Meudon. 

"You  know  him,  monsieur?" 

"He  is  my  godfather." 

"Your  godfather!  And  you  a  representative!  Why,  then, 
you  may  be  the  very  man  he  needs."  And  Rougane  told 
him  of  his  son's  errand  into  Paris  that  afternoon  and  its 
result. 

No  more  was  required.  That  two  years  ago  his  godfather 
should  upon  certain  terms  have  refused  him  his  house  weighed 


The  Overwhelming  Reason  351 

for  nothing  at  the  moment.  He  left  his  travelling  carriage  at 
the  little  inn  and  went  straight  to  M.  de  Kercadiou. 

And  M.  de  Kercadiou,  startled  in  such  an  hour  by  this 
sudden  apparition,  of  one  against  whom  he  nursed  a  bitter 
grievance,  greeted  him  in  terms  almost  identical  with  those 
in  which  in  that  same  room  he  had  greeted  him  on  a  similar 
occasion  once  before. 

"What  do  you  want  here,  sir?" 

"To  serve  you  if  possible,  my  godfather,"  was  the  dis- 
arming answer. 

But  it  did  not  disarm  M.  de  Kercadiou.  "You  have 
stayed  away  so  long  that  I  hoped  you.would  not  again  dis- 
turb me." 

"I  should  not  have  ventured  to  disobey  you  now  were  it 
not  for  the  hope  that  I  can  be  of  service.  I  have  seen  Rou- 
gane,  the  mayor  ..." 

"What's  that  you  say  about  not  venturing  to  dis- 
obey?" 

"You  forbade  me  your  house,  monsieur." 

M.  de  Kercadiou  stared  at  him  helplessly. 

"And  is  that  why  you  have  not  come  near  me  in  all  this 
time?" 

"Of  course.  Why  else?" 

M.  de  Kercadiou  continued  to  stare.  Then  he  swore  under 
his  breath.  It  disconcerted  him  to  have  to  deal  with  a  man 
who  insisted  upon  taking  him  so  literally.  He  had  expected 
that  Andr6-Louis  would  have  come  contritely  to  admit  his 
fault  and  beg  to  be  taken  back  into  favour.  He  said  so. 

"But  how  could  I  hope  that  you  meant  less  than  you  said, 
monsieur?  You  were  so  very  definite  in  your  declaration. 
What  expressions  of  contrition  could  have  served  me  with- 
out a  purpose  of  amendment?  And  I  had  no  notion  of  amend- 
ing. We  may  yet  be  thankful  for  that." 

"Thankful?" 

"I  am  a  representative.  I  have  certain  powers.  I  am  very 
opportunely  returning  to  Paris.  Can  I  serve  you  where 
Rougane  cannot?  The  need,  monsieur,  would  appear  to  be 


352  The  Sword 


very  urgent  if  the  half  of  what  I  suspect  is  true.  Aline  should 
be  placed  in  safety  at  once." 

M.  de  Kercadiou  surrendered  unconditionally.  He  came 
over  and  took  Andre-Louis'  hand. 

"My  boy,"  he  said,  and  he  was  visibly  moved,  "there  is  in 
you  a  certain  nobility  that  is  not  to  be  denied.  If  I  seemed 
harsh  with  you,  then,  it  was  because  I  was  righting  against 
your  evil  proclivities.  I  desired  to  keep  you  out  of  the  evil 
path  of  politics  that  have  brought  this  unfortunate  country 
into  so  terrible  a  pass.  The  enemy  on  the  frontier;  civil  war 
about  to  flame  out  at  home.  That  is  what  you  revolution- 
aries have  done." 

Andrd-Louis  did  not  argue.  He  passed  on. 

"About  Aline?"  he  asked.  And  himself  answered  his  own 
question :  "She  is  in  Paris,  and  she  must  be  brought  out  of  it 
at  once,  before  the  place  becomes  a  shambles,  as  well  it  may 
once  the  passions  that  have  been  brewing  all  these  months  are 
let  loose.  Young  Rougane's  plan  is  good.  At  least,  I  cannot 
think  of  a  better  one." 

"But  Rougane  the  elder  will  not  hear  of  it." 

"You  mean  he  will  not  do  it  on  his  own  responsibility. 
But  he  has  consented  to  do  it  on  mine.  I  have  left  him  a  note 
over  my  signature  to  the  effect  that  a  safe-conduct  for  Mile, 
de  Kercadiou  to  go  to  Paris  and  return  is  issued  by  him  in 
compliance  with  orders  from  me.  The  powers  I  carry  and  of 
which  I  have  satisfied  him  are  his  sufficient  justification  for 
obeying  me  in  this.  I  have  left  him  that  note  on  the  under- 
standing that  he  is  to  use  it  only  in  an  extreme  case,  for  his 
own  protection.  In  exchange  he  has  given  me  this  safe- 
conduct." 

"You  already  have  it!" 

M.  de  Kercadiou  took  the  sheet  of  paper  that  Andr£- 
Louis  held  out.  His  hand  shook.  He  approached  it  to  the 
cluster  of  candles  burning  on  the  console  and  screwed  up  his 
short-sighted  eyes  to  read. 

"If  you  send  that  to  Paris  by  young  Rougane  in  the  morn- 
ing," said  Andr6-Louis,  "Aline  should  be  here  by  noon. 


The  Overwhelming  Reason  353 

Nothing,  of  course,  could  be  done  to-night  without  provoking 
suspicion.  The  hour  is  too  late.  And  now,  monsieur  my 
godfather,  you  know  exactly  why  I  intrude  in  violation  of 
your  commands.  If  there  is  any  other  way  in  which  I  can 
serve  you,  you  have  but  to  name  it  whilst  I  am  here." 

"But  there  is,  Andre.  Did  not  Rougane  tell  you  that 
there  were  others  .  .  .  ?" 

"He  mentioned  Mme.  de  Plougastel  and  her  servant." 

"Then  why  .  .  .  ?"  M.  de  Kercadiou  broke  off,  looking 
his  question. 

Very  solemnly  Andre-Louis  shook  his  head. 

"That  is  impossible,"  he  said. 

M.  de  Kercadiou 's  mouth  fell  open  in  astonishment.  "  Im- 
possible!" he  repeated.  "But  why?" 

"  Monsieur,  I  can  do  what  I  am  doing  for  Aline  without 
offending  my  conscience.  Besides,  for  Aline  I  would  offend 
my  conscience  and  do  it.  But  Mme.  de  Plougastel  is  in 
very  different  case.  Neither  Aline  nor  any  of  hers  have  been 
concerned  in  counter-revolutionary  work,  which  is  the  true 
source  of  the  calamity  that  now  threatens  to  overtake  us. 
I  can  procure  her  removal  from  Paris  without  self-reproach, 
convinced  that  I  am  doing  nothing  that  any  one  could  cen- 
sure, or  that  might  become  the  subject  of  enquiries.  But 
Mme.  de  Plougastel  is  the  wife  of  M.  le  Comte  de  Plougastel, 
whom  all  the  world  knows  to  be  an  agent  between  the  Court 
and  the  emigres." 

"That  is  no  fault  of  hers,"  cried  M.  de  Kercadiou  through 
his  consternation. 

"Agreed.  But  she  may  be  called  upon  at  any  moment  to 
establish  the  fact  that  she  is  not  a  party  to  these  manoeu- 
vres. It  is  known  that  she  was  in  Paris  to-day.  Should  she  be 
sought  to-morrow  and  should  it  be  found  that  she  has  gone, 
enquiries  will  certainly  be  made,  from  which  it  must  result 
that  I  have  betrayed  my  trust,  and  abused  my  powers  to 
serve  personal  ends.  I  hope,  monsieur,  that  you  will  under- 
stand that  the  risk  is  too  great  to  be  run  for  the  sake  of  a 
stranger." 


354  The  Sword 


"A  stranger?"  said  the  Seigneur  reproachfully. 

"Practically  a  stranger  to  me,"  said  Andre-Louis. 

"But  she  is  not  a  stranger  to  me,  Andr£ .  She  is  my  cousin 
and  very  dear  and  valued  friend.  And,  mon  Dieu,  what  you 
say  but  increases  the  urgency  of  getting  her  out  of  Paris. 
She  must  be  rescued,  Andr6,  at  all  costs — she  must  be  res- 
cued! Why,  her  case  is  infinitely  more  urgent  than  Aline's!" 

He  stood  a  suppliant  before  his  godson,  very  different  now 
from  the  stern  man  who  had  greeted  him  on  his  arrival.  His 
face  was  pale,  his  hands  shook,  and  there  were  beads  of  per- 
spiration on  his  brow. 

"Monsieur  my  godfather,  I  would  do  anything  in  reason. 
But  I  cannot  do  this.  To  rescue  her  might  mean  ruin  for 
Aline  and  yourself  as  well  as  for  me." 

"We  must  take  the  risk." 

"You  have  a  right  to  speak  for  yourself,  of  course." 

"Oh,  and  for  you,  believe  me,  Andre,  for  you!"  He  came 
close  to  the  young  man.  "Andr6,  I  implore  you  to  take  my 
word  for  that,  and  to  obtain  this  permit  for  Mme.  de  Plou- 
gastel." 

Andre  looked  at  him  mystified.  "This  is  fantastic,"  he 
said.  "I  have  grateful  memories  of  the  lady's  interest  in  me 
for  a  few  days  once  when  I  was  a  child,  and  again  more  re- 
cently in  Paris  when  she  sought  to  convert  me  to  what  she 
accounts  the  true  political  religion.  But  I  do  not  risk  my 
neck  for  her  —  no,  nor  yours,  nor  Aline's." 

"Ah!  But,  Andr6.  .  ." 

"That  is  my  last  word,  monsieur.  It  is  growing  late,  and 
I  desire  to  sleep  in  Paris." 

"No,  no!  Wait!"  The  Lord  of  Gavrillac  was  displaying 
signs  of  unspeakable  distress.  "Andr6,  you  must!" 

There  was  in  this  insistence  and,  still  more,  in  the  frenzied 
manner  of  it,  something  so  unreasonable  that  Andr6  could 
not  fail  to  assume  that  some  dark  and  mysterious  motive  lay 
behind  it. 

"I  must?"  he  echoed.  "Why  must  I?  Your  reasons, 
monsieur?" 


The  Overwhelming  Reason  355 

"Andre,  my  reasons  are  overwhelming." 

"Pray  allow  me  to  be  the  judge  of  that."  Andr6-Louis' 
manner  was  almost  peremptory. 

The  demand  seemed  to  reduce  M.  de  Kercadiou  to  de- 
spair. He  paced  the  room,  his  hands  tight-clasped  behind 
him,  his  brow  wrinkled.  At  last  he  came  to  stand  before  his 
godson. 

"Can't  you  take  my  word  for  it  that  these  reasons  exist? " 
he  cried  in  anguish. 

"  In  such  a  matter  as  this  —  a  matter  that  may  involve  my 
neck?  Oh,  monsieur,  is  that  reasonable?" 

"I  violate  my  word  of  honour,  my  oath,  if  I  tell  you." 
M.  de  Kercadiou  turned  away,  wringing  his  hands,  his  con- 
dition visibly  piteous;  then  turned  again  to  Andr£.  "But 
in  this  extremity,  in  this  desperate  extremity,  and  since  you 
so  ungenerously  insist,  I  shall  have  to  tell  you.  God  help  me, 
I  have  no  choice.  She  will  realize  that  when  she  knows. 
Andre,  my  boy  ..."  He  paused  again,  a  man  afraid.  He 
set  a  hand  on  his  godson's  shoulder,  and  to  his  increasing 
amazement  Andr6-Louis  perceived  that  over  those  pale, 
short-sighted  eyes  there  was  a  film  of  tears.  "Mme.  de 
Plougastel  is  your  mother." 

Followed,  for  a  long  moment,  utter  silence.  This  thing 
that  he  was  told  was  not  immediately  understood.  When 
understanding  came  at  last  Andr6-Louis'  first  impulse  was  to 
cry  out.  But  he  possessed  himself,  and  played  the  Stoic. 
He  must  ever  be  playing  something.  That  was  in  his  nature. 
And  he  was  true  to  his  nature  even  in  this  supreme  moment. 
He  continued  silent  until,  obeying  that  queer  histrionic  in- 
stinct, he  could  trust  himself  to  speak  without  emotion. 

"I  see,"  he  said,  at  last,  quite  coolly. 

His  mind  was  sweeping  back  over  the  past.  Swiftly  he 
reviewed  his  memories  of  Mme.  de  Plougastel,  her  singular 
if  sporadic  interest  in  him,  the  curious  blend  of  affection  and 
wistfulness  which  her  manner  towards  him  had  always 
presented,  and  at  last  he  understood  so  much  that  hitherto 
had  intrigued  him. 


356  The  Sword 


"I  see,"  he  said  again;  and  added  now,  "Of  course,  any 
but  a  fool  would  have  guessed  it  long  ago." 

It  was  M.  de  Kercadiou  who  cried  out,  M.  de  Kercadiou 
who  recoiled  as  from  a  blow. 

"My  God,  Andr£,  of  what  are  you  made?  You  can  take 
such  an  announcement  in  this  fashion?" 

"And  how  would  you  have  me  take  it?  Should  it  surprise 
me  to  discover  that  I  had  a  mother?  After  all,  a  mother  is 
an  indispensable  necessity  to  getting  one's  self  born." 

He  sat  down  abruptly,  to  conceal  the  too-revealing  fact 
that  his  limbs  were  shaking.  He  pulled  a  handkerchief  from 
his  pocket  to  mop  his  brow,  which  had  grown  damp.  And 
then,  quite  suddenly,  he  found  himself  weeping. 

At  the  sight  of  those  tears  streaming  silently  down  that 
face  that  had  turned  so  pale,  M.  de  Kercadiou  came  quickly 
across  to  him.  He  sat  down  beside  him  and  threw  an  arm 
affectionately  over  his  shoulder. 

"Andre,  my  poor  lad,"  he  murmured.  "I  ...  I  was  fool 
enough  to  think  you  had  no  heart.  You  deceived  me  with 
your  infernal  pretence,  and  now  I  see  ...  I  see  .  .  ."  He 
was  not  sure  what  it  was  that  he  saw,  or  else  he  hesitated  to 
express  it. 

"It  is  nothing,  monsieur.  I  am  tired  out,  and  .  .  .  and  I 
have  a  cold  in  the  head."  And  then,  finding  the  part  beyond 
his  power,  he  abruptly  threw  it  up,  utterly  abandoned  all 
pretence.  "Why  .  .  .  why  has  there  been  all  this  mystery?" 
he  asked.  "Was  it  intended  that  I  should  never  know?" 

"It  was,  Andre.  It  ...  it  had  to  be,  for  prudence'  sake." 

"But  why?  Complete  your  confidence,  sir.  Surely  you 
cannot  leave  it  there.  Having  told  me  so  much,  you  must 
tell  me  all." 

"The  reason,  my  boy,  is  that  you  were  born  some  three 
years  after  your  mother's  marriage  with  M.  de  Plougastel, 
some  eighteen  months  after  M.  de  Plougastel  had  been  away 
with  the  army,  and  some  four  months  before  his  return  to 
his  wife.  It  is  a  matter  that  M.  de  Plougastel  has  never 
suspected,  and  for  gravest  family  reasons  must  never  sus- 


The  Overwhelming  Reason  357 

pect.  That  is  why  the  utmost  secrecy  has  been  preserved. 
That  is  why  none  was  ever  allowed  to  know.  Your  mother 
came  betimes  into  Brittany,  and  under  an  assumed  name 
spent  some  months  in  the  village  of  Moreau.  It  was  while  she 
was  there  that  you  were  born." 

Andr6-Louis  turned  it  over  in  his  mind.  He  had  dried  his 
tears.  And  sat  now  rigid  and  collected. 

"When  you  say  that  none  was  ever  allowed  to  know,  you 
are  telling  me,  of  course,  that  you,  monsieur  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  mon  Dieu,  no!"  The  denial  came  in  a  violent  out- 
burst. M.  de  Kercadiou  sprang  to  his  feet  propelled  from 
Andre's  side  by  the  violence  of  his  emotions.  It  was  as  if  the 
very  suggestion  filled  him  with  horror.  "  I  was  the  only  other 
one  who  knew.  But  it  is  not  as  you  think,  Andre.  You  can- 
not imagine  that  I  should  lie  to  you,  that  I  should  deny  you 
if  you  were  my  son?" 

"If  you  say  that  I  am  not,  monsieur,  that  is  sufficient." 

"You  are  not.  I  was  Therese's  cousin  and  also,  as  she  well 
knew,  her  truest  friend.  She  knew  that  she  could  trust  me; 
and  it  was  to  me  she  came  for  help  in  her  extremity.  Once, 
years  before,  I  would  have  married  her.  But,  of  course,  I  am 
not  the  sort  of  man  a  woman  could  love.  She  trusted,  how- 
ever, to  my  love  for  her,  and  I  have  kept  her  trust." 

"Then,  who  was  my  father?" 

"  I  don't  know.  She  never  told  me.  It  was  her  secret,  and 
I  did  not  pry.  It  is  not  in  my  nature,  Andr6." 

Andre-Louis  got  up,  and  stood  silently  facing  M.  de 
Kercadiou. 

"You  believe  me,  Andre." 

"Naturally,  monsieur;  and  I  am  sorry,  I  am  sorry  that  I 
am  not  your  son." 

M.  de  Kercadiou  gripped  his  godson's  hand  convulsively, 
and  held  it  a  moment  with  no  word  spoken.  Then  as  they 
fell  away  from  each  other  again: 

"And  now,  what  will  you  do,  Andr6?"  he  asked.  "Now 
that  you  know?" 

Andre-Louis  stood  awhile  considering,  then  broke  into 


358  The  Sword 


laughter.  The  situation  had  its  humours.  He  explained 
them. 

"What  difference  should  the  knowledge  make?  Is  filial 
piety  to  be  called  into  existence  by  the  mere  announcement 
of  relationship?  Am  I  to  risk  my  neck  through  lack  of  cir- 
cumspection on  behalf  of  a  mother  so  very  circumspect  that 
she  had  no  intention  of  ever  revealing  herself?  The  dis- 
covery rests  upon  the  merest  chance,  upon  a  fall  of  the  dice  of 
Fate.  Is  that  to  weigh  with  me?" 

"The  decision  is  with  you,  Andre." 

"Nay,  it  is  beyond  me.   Decide  it  who  can,  I  cannot." 

"You  mean  that  you  refuse  even  now?" 

"I  mean  that  I  consent.  Since  I  cannot  decide  what  it  is 
that  I  should  do,  it  only  remains  for  me  to  do  what  a  son 
should.  It  is  grotesque;  but  all  life  is  grotesque." 

"You  will  never,  never  regret  it." 

"  I  hope  not,"  said  Andre.  "Yet  I  think  it  very  likely  that 
I  shall.  And  now  I  had  better  see  Rougane  again  at  once,  and 
obtain  from  him  the  other  two  permits  required.  Then  per- 
haps it  will  be  best  that  I  take  them  to  Paris  myself,  in  the 
morning.  If  you  will  give  me  a  bed,  monsieur,  I  shall  be 
grateful.  I  ...  I  confess  that  I  am  hardly  in  case  to  do  more 
to-night." 


CHAPTER  XIII 
SANCTUARY 

INTO  the  late  afternoon  of  that  endless  day  of  horror  with  its 
perpetual  alarms,  its  volleying  musketry,  rolling  drums,  and 
distant  muttering  of  angry  multitudes,  Mme.  de  Plougastel 
and  Aline  sat  waiting  in  that  handsome  house  in  the  Rue  du 
Paradis.  It  was  no  longer  for  Rougane  they  waited.  They 
realized  that,  be  the  reason  what  it  might  —  and  by  now 
many  reasons  must  no  doubt  exist  —  this  friendly  messenger 
would  not  return.  They  waited  without  knowing  for  what. 
They  waited  for  whatever  might  betide. 

At  one  time  early  in  the  afternoon  the  roar  of  battle  ap- 
proached them,  racing  swiftly  in  their  direction,  swelling 
each  moment  in  volume  and  in  horror.  It  was  the  frenzied 
clamour  of  a  multitude  drunk  with  blood  and  bent  on  de- 
struction. Near  at  hand  that  fierce  wave  of  humanity  checked 
in  its  turbulent  progress.  Followed  blows  of  pikes  upon  a 
door  and  imperious  calls  to  open,  and  thereafter  came  the 
rending  of  timbers,  the  shivering  of  glass,  screams  of  terror 
blending  with  screams  of  rage,  and,  running  through  these 
shrill  sounds,  the  deeper  diapason  of  bestial  laughter. 

It  was  a  hunt  of  two  wretched  Swiss  guardsmen  seeking 
blindly  to  escape.  And  they  were  run  to  earth  in  a  house  in 
the  neighbourhood,  and  there  cruelly  done  to  death  by  that 
demoniac  mob.  The  thing  accomplished,  the  hunters,  male 
and  female,  forming  into  a  battalion,  came  swinging  down 
the  Rue  du  Paradis,  chanting  the  song  of  Marseilles  —  a 
song  new  to  Paris  in  those  days: 

Aliens,  enfants  de  la  patrie! 

Le  jour  de  gloire  est  arrive. 
Centre  nous  de  la  tyrannic 

L'etendard  sanglant  est  leve. 


360  The  Sword 


Nearer  it  came,  raucously  bawled  by  some  hundreds  of 
voices,  a  dread  sound  that  had  come  so  suddenly  to  dis- 
place at  least  temporarily  the  merry,  trivial  air  of  the  "£a 
ira!"  which  hitherto  had  been  the  revolutionary  carillon. 

Instinctively  Mme.  de  Plougastel  and  Aline  clung  to  each 
other.  They  had  heard  the  sound  of  the  ravishing  of  that 
other  house  in  the  neighbourhood,  without  knowledge  of  the 
reason.  What  if  now  it  should  be  the  turn  of  the  H6tel 
Plougastel!  There  was  no  real  cause  to  fear  it,  save  that 
amid  a  turmoil  imperfectly  understood  and  therefore  the 
more  awe-inspiring,  the  worst  must  be  feared  always. 

The  dreadful  song  so  dreadfully  sung,  and  the  thunder  of 
heavily  shod  feet  upon  the  roughly  paved  street,  passed  on 
and  receded.  They  breathed  again,  almost  as  if  a  miracle  had 
saved  them,  to  yield  to  fresh  alarm  an  instant  later,  when 
madame's  young  footman,  Jacques,  the  most  trusted  of  her 
servants,  burst  into  their  presence  unceremoniously  with  a 
scared  face,  bringing  the  announcement  that  a  man  who 
had  just  climbed  over  the  garden  wall  professed  himself  a 
friend  of  madame's,  and  desired  to  be  brought  immediately 
to  her  presence. 

"But  he  looks  like  a  sansculotte,  madame,"  the  staunch 
fellow  warned  her. 

Her  thoughts  and  hopes  leapt  at  once  to  Rougane. 

"Bring  him  in,"  she  commanded  breathlessly. 

Jacques  went  out,  to  return  presently  accompanied  by  a 
tall  man  in  a  long,  shabby,  and  very  ample  overcoat  and  a 
wide-brimmed  hat  that  was  turned  down  all  round,  and 
adorned  by  an  enormous  tricolour  cockade.  This  hat  he  re- 
moved as  he  entered. 

Jacques,  standing  behind  him,  perceived  that  his  hair,  al- 
though now  in  some  disorder,  bore  signs  of  having  been 
carefully  dressed.  It  was  clubbed,  and  it  carried  some  lin- 
gering vestiges  of  powder.  The  young  footman  wondered 
what  it  was  in  the  man's  face,  which  was  turned  from  him, 
that  should  cause  his  mistress  to  cry  out  and  recoil.  Then  he 
found  himself  dismissed  abruptly  by  a  gesture. 


Sanctuary  361 

The  newcomer  advanced  to  the  middle  of  the  salon,  mov- 
ing like  a  man  exhausted  and  breathing  hard.  There  he 
leaned  against  a  table,  across  which  he  confronted  Mme.  de 
Plougastel.  And  she  stood  regarding  him,  a  strange  horror 
in  her  eyes. 

In  the  background,  on  a  settle  at  the  salon's  far  end,  sat 
Aline  staring  in  bewilderment  and  some  fear  at  a  face  which, 
if  unrecognizable  through  the  mask  of  blood  and  dust  that 
smeared  it,  was  yet  familiar.  And  then  the  man  spoke,  and 
instantly  she  knew  the  voice  for  that  of  the  Marquis  de  La 
Tour  d'Azyr. 

"My  dear  friend,"  he  was  saying,  "forgive  me  if  I  startled 
you.  Forgive  me  if  I  thrust  myself  in  here  without  leave,  at 
such  a  time,  in  such  a  manner.  But  .  .  .  you  see  how  it  is 
with  me.  I  am  a  fugitive.  In  the  course  of  my  distracted 
flight,  not  knowing  which  way  to  turn  for  safety,  I  thought 
of  you.  I  told  myself  that  if  I  could  but  safely  reach  your 
house,  I  might  find  sanctuary." 

"You  are  in  danger?" 

"In  danger?"  Almost  he  seemed  silently  to  laugh  at  the 
unnecessary  question.  "If  I  were  to  show  myself  openly  in 
the  streets  just  now,  I  might  with  luck  contrive  to  live  for 
five  minutes !  My  friend,  it  has  been  a  massacre.  Some  few  of 
us  escaped  from  the  Tuileries  at  the  end,  to  be  hunted  to 
death  in  the  streets.  I  doubt  if  by  this  time  a  single  Swiss 
survives.  They  had  the  worst  of  it,  poor  devils.  And  as  for 
us  —  my  God !  they  hate  us  more  than  they  hate  the  Swiss. 
Hence  this  filthy  disguise." 

He  peeled  off  the  shaggy  greatcoat,  and  casting  it  from 
him  stepped  forth  in  the  black  satin  that  had  been  the  gen- 
eral livery  of  the  hundred  knights  of  the  dagger  who  had 
rallied  in  the  Tuileries  that  morning  to  the  defence  of  their 
king. 

His  coat  was  rent  across  the  back,  his  neckcloth  and  the 
ruffles  at  his  wrists  were  torn  and  bloodstained;  with  his 
smeared  face  and  disordered  headdress  he  was  terrible  to 
behold.  Yet  he  contrived  to  carry  himself  with  his  habitual 


362  The  Sword 


easy  assurance,  remembered  to  kiss  the  trembling  hand  which 
Mme.  de  Plougastel  extended  to  him  in  welcome. 

"You  did  well  to  come  to  me,  Gervais,"  she  said.  "Yes, 
here  is  sanctuary  for  the  present.  You  will  be  quite  safe,  at 
least  for  as  long  as  we  are  safe.  My  servants  are  entirely 
trustworthy.  Sit  down  and  tell  me  all." 

He  obeyed  her,  collapsing  almost  into  the  armchair  which 
she  thrust  forward,  a  man  exhausted,  whether  by  physical 
exertion  or  by  nerve-strain,  or  both.  He  drew  a  handker- 
chief from  his  pocket  and  wiped  some  of  the  blood  and  dirt 
from  his  face. 

"  It  is  soon  told."  His  tone  was  bitter  with  the  bitterness 
of  despair.  "This,  my  dear,  is  the  end  of  us.  Plougastel  is 
lucky  in  being  across  the  frontier  at  such  a  time.  Had  I  not 
been  fool  enough  to  trust  those  who  to-day  have  proved 
themselves  utterly  unworthy  of  trust,  that  is  where  I  should 
be  myself.  My  remaining  in  Paris  is  the  crowning  folly  of  a 
life  full  of  follies  and  mistakes.  That  I  should  come  to  you 
in  my  hour  of  most  urgent  need  adds  point  to  it."  He 
laughed  in  his  bitterness. 

Madame  moistened  her  dry  lips.  "And  .  .  .  and  now?" 
she  asked  him. 

"  It  only  remains  to  get  away  as  soon  as  may  be,  if  it  is  still 
possible.  Here  in  France  there  is  no  longer  any  room  for  us 
—  at  least,  not  above  ground.  To-day  has  proved  it."  And 
then  he  looked  up  at  her,  standing  there  beside  him  so  pale 
and  timid,  and  he  smiled.  He  patted  the  fine  hand  that 
rested  upon  the  arm  of  his  chair.  "My  dear  Th6rese,  unless 
you  carry  charitableness  to  the  length  of  giving  me  to  drink, 
you  will  see  me  perish  of  thirst  under  your  eyes  before  ever 
the  canaille  has  a  chance  to  finish  me." 

She  started.  "I  should  have  thought  of  it!"  she  cried  in 
self-reproach,  and  she  turned  quickly.  "Aline,"  she  begged, 
"tell  Jacques  to  bring  .  .  ." 

"Aline!"  he  echoed,  interrupting,  and  swinging  round  in 
his  turn.  Then,  as  Aline  rose  into  view,  detaching  from  her 
background,  and  he  at  last  perceived  her,  he  heaved  himself 


Sanctuary  363 

abruptly  to  his  weary  legs  again,  and  stood  there  stiffly 
bowing  to  her  across  the  space  of  gleaming  floor.  "Made- 
moiselle, I  had  not  suspected  your  presence,"  he  said,  and 
he  seemed  extraordinarily  ill-at-ease,  a  man  startled,  as  if 
caught  in  an  illicit  act. 

"  I  perceived  it,  monsieur,"  she  answered,  as  she  advanced 
to  do  madame's  commission.  She  paused  before  him.  "From 
my  heart,  monsieur,  I  grieve  that  we  should  meet  again  in 
circumstances  so  very  painful." 

Not  since  the  day  of  his  duel  with  Andre-Louis  —  the  day 
which  had  seen  the  death  and  burial  of  his  last  hope  of  win- 
ning her  —  had  they  stood  face  to  face. 

He  checked  as  if  on  the  point  of  answering  her.  His  glance 
strayed  to  Mme.  de  Plougastel,  and,  oddly  reticent  for  one 
who  could  be  very  glib,  he  bowed  in  silence. 

"But  sit,  monsieur,  I  beg.   You  are  fatigued." 

"You  are  gracious  to  observe  it.  With  your  permission, 
then."  And  he  resumed  his  seat.  She  continued  on  her  way 
to  the  door  and  passed  out  upon  her  errand. 

When  presently  she  returned  they  had  almost  unac- 
countably changed  places.  It  was  Mme.  de  Plougastel  who 
was  seated  in  that  armchair  of  brocade  and  gilt,  and  M.  de 
La  Tour  d'Azyr  who,  despite  his  lassitude,  was  leaning  over 
the  back  of  it  talking  earnestly,  seeming  by  his  attitude  to 
plead  with  her.  On  Aline's  entrance  he  broke  off  instantly 
and  moved  away,  so  that  she  was  left  with  a  sense  of  having 
intruded.  Further  she  observed  that  the  Countess  was  in 
tears. 

Following  her  came  presently  the  diligent  Jacques,  bear- 
ing a  tray  laden  with  food  and  wine.  Madame  poured  for  her 
guest,  and  he  drank  a  long  draught  of  the  Burgundy,  then 
begged,  holding  forth  his  grimy  hands,  that  he  might  mend 
his  appearance  before  sitting  down  to  eat. 

He  was  led  away  and  valeted  by  Jacques,  and  when  he 
returned  he  had  removed  from  his  person  the  last  vestige  of 
the  rough  handling  he  had  received.  He  looked  almost  his 
normal  self,  the  disorder  in  his  attire  repaired,  calm  and  dig- 


364  The  Sword 


nified  and  courtly  in  his  bearing,  but  very  pale  and  haggard 
of  face,  seeming  suddenly  to  have  increased  in  years,  to  have 
reached  in  appearance  the  age  that  was  in  fact  his  own. 

As  he  ate  and  drank  —  and  this  with  appetite,  for  as  he 
told  them  he  had  not  tasted  food  since  early  morning  —  he 
entered  into  the  details  of  the  dreadful  events  of  the  day, 
and  gave  them  the  particulars  of  his  own  escape  from  the 
Tuileries  when  all  was  seen  to  be  lost  and  when  the  Swiss, 
having  burnt  their  last  cartridge,  were  submitting  to  whole- 
sale massacre  at  the  hands  of  the  indescribably  furious 
mob. 

"Oh,  it  was  all  most  ill  done,"  he  ended  critically.  "We 
were  timid  when  we  should  have  been  resolute,  and  resolute 
at  last  when  it  was  too  late.  That  is  the  history  of  our  side 
from  the  beginning  of  this  accursed  struggle.  We  have 
lacked  proper  leadership  throughout,  and  now  —  as  I  have 
said  already  —  there  is  an  end  to  us.  It  but  remains  to  es- 
cape, as  soon  as  we  can  discover  how  the  thing  is  to  be  ac- 
complished." 

Madame  told  him  of  the  hopes  that  she  had  centred  upon 
Rougane. 

It  lifted  him  out  of  his  gloom.  He  was  disposed  to  be  op- 
timistic. 

"You  are  wrong  to  have  abandoned  that  hope,"  he  as- 
sured her.  "If  this  mayor  is  so  well  disposed,  he  certainly 
can  do  as  his  son  promised.  But  last  night  it  would  have 
been  too  late  for  him  to  have  reached  you,  and  to-day,  as- 
suming that  he  had  come  to  Paris,  almost  impossible  for  him 
to  win  across  the  streets  from  the  other  side.  It  is  most 
likely  that  he  will  yet  come.  I  pray  that  he  may;  for  the 
knowledge  that  you  and  Mile,  de  Kercadiou  are  out  of  this 
would  comfort  me  above  all." 

"We  should  take  you  with  us,"  said  madame. 

"Ah!  But  how?" 

"Young  Rougane  was  to  bring  me  permits  for  three  per- 
sons —  Aline,  myself,  and  my  footman,  Jacques.  You 
would  take  the  place  of  Jacques." 


Sanctuary  365 

"Faith,  to  get  out  of  Paris,  madame,  there  is  no  man  whose 
place  I  would  not  take."  And  he  laughed. 

Their  spirits  rose  with  his  and  their  flagging  hopes  revived. 
But  as  dusk  descended  again  upon  the  city,  without  any 
sign  of  the  deliverer  they  awaited,  those  hopes  began  to 
ebb  once  more. 

M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr  at  last  pleaded  weariness,  and 
begged  to  be  permitted  to  withdraw  that  he  might  en- 
deavour to  take  some  rest  against  whatever  might  have  to  be 
faced  in  the  immediate  future.  When  he  had  gone,  madame 
persuaded  Aline  to  go  and  lie  down. 

"I  will  call  you,  my  dear,  the  moment  he  arrives,"  she 
said,  bravely  maintaining  that  pretence  of  a  confidence  that 
had  by  now  entirely  evaporated. 

Aline  kissed  her  affectionately,  and  departed,  outwardly 
so  calm  and  unperturbed  as  to  leave  the  Countess  wondering 
whether  she  realized  the  peril  by  which  they  were  surrounded, 
a  peril  infinitely  increased  by  the  presence  in  that  house  of 
a  man  so  widely  known  and  detested  as  M.  de  La  Tour 
d'Azyr,  a  man  who  was  probably  being  sought  for  by  his 
enemies  at  this  moment. 

Left  alone,  madame  lay  down  on  a  couch  in  the  salon  it- 
self, to  be  ready  for  any  emergency.  It  was  a  hot  summer 
night,  and  the  glass  doors  opening  upon  the  luxuriant  gar- 
den stood  wide  to  admit  the  air.  On  that  air  came  intermit- 
tently from  the  distance  sounds  of  the  continuing  horrible 
activities  of  the  populace,  the  aftermath  of  that  bloody 
day. 

Mme.  de  Plougastel  lay  there,  listening  to  those  sounds  for 
upwards  of  an  hour,  thanking  Heaven  that  for  the  present  at 
least  the  disturbances  were  distant,  dreading  lest  at  any 
moment  they  should  occur  nearer  at  hand,  lest  this  Bondy 
section  in  which  her  hotel  was  situated  should  become  the 
scene  of  horrors  similar  to  those  whose  echoes  reached  her 
ears  from  other  sections  away  to  the  south  and  west. 

The  couch  occupied  by  the  Countess  lay  in  shadow ;  for  all 
the  lights  in  that  long  salon  had  been  extinguished  with  the 


366  The  Sword 


exception  of  a  cluster  of  candles  in  a  massive  silver  candle- 
branch  placed  on  a  round  marquetry  table  in  the  middle  of 
the  room  —  an  island  of  light  in  the  surrounding  gloom. 

The  timepiece  on  the  overmantel  chimed  melodiously  the 
hour  of  ten,  and  then,  startling  in  the  suddenness  with  which 
it  broke  the  immediate  silence,  another  sound  vibrated 
through  the  house,  and  brought  madame  to  her  feet,  in  a 
breathless  mingling  of  hope  and  dread.  Some  one  was 
knocking  sharply  on  the  door  below.  Followed  moments  of 
agonized  suspense,  culminating  in  the  abrupt  invasion  of 
the  room  by  the  footman  Jacques.  He  looked  round,  not 
seeing  his  mistress  at  first. 

"Madame!  Madame!"  he  panted,  out  of  breath. 

"What  is  it,  Jacques ! ' '  Her  voice  was  steady  now  that  the 
need  for  self-control  seemed  thrust  upon  her.  She  advanced 
from  the  shadows  into  that  island  of  light  about  the  table. 

"There  is  a  man  below.  He  is  asking  ...  he  is  demand- 
ing to  see  you  at  once." 

"A  man?"  she  questioned. 

"He  ...  he  seems  to  be  an  official;  at  least  he  wears  the 
sash  of  office.  And  he  refuses  to  give  any  name;  he  says 
that  his  name  would  convey  nothing  to  you.  He  insists 
that  he  must  see  you  in  person  and  at  once." 

"An  official?"  said  madame. 

"An  official,"  Jacques  repeated.  "I  would  not  have 
admitted  him,  but  that  he  demanded  it  in  the  name  of 
the  Nation.  Madame,  it  is  for  you  to  say  what  shall  be 
done.  Robert  is  with  me.  If  you  wish  it  ...  whatever  it 
may  be  .  .  ." 

"My  good  Jacques,  no,  no."  She  was  perfectly  composed. 
"If  this  man  intended  evil,  surely  he  would  not  come  alone. 
Conduct  him  to  me,  and  then  beg  Mile,  de  Kercadiou  to 
join  me  if  she  is  awake." 

Jacques  departed,  himself  partly  reassured.  Madame 
seated  herself  in  the  armchair  by  the  table  well  within  the 
light.  She  smoothed  her  dress  with  a  mechanical  hand.  If, 
as  it  would  seem,  her  hopes  had  been  futile,  so  had  her  mo- 


Sanctuary  367 

mentary  fears.  A  man  on  any  but  an  errand  of  peace  would 
have  brought  some  following  with  him,  as  she  had  said. 

The  door  opened  again,  and  Jacques  reappeared;  after 
him,  stepping  briskly  past  him,  came  a  slight  man  in  a  wide- 
brimmed  hat,  adorned  by  a  tricolour  cockade.  About  the 
waist  of  an  olive-green  riding-coat  he  wore  a  broad  tricolour 
sash ;  a  sword  hung  at  his  side. 

He  swept  off  his  hat,  and  the  candlelight  glinted  on  the 
steel  buckle  in  front  of  it.  Madame  found  herself  silently 
regarded  by  a  pair  of  large,  dark  eyes  set  in  a  lean,  brown 
face,  eyes  that  were  most  singularly  intent  and  searching. 

She  leaned  forward,  incredulity  swept  across  her  coun- 
tenance. Then  her  eyes  kindled,  and  the  colour  came  creep- 
ing back  into  her  pale  cheeks.  She  rose  suddenly.  She  was 
trembling. 

"  Andr6-Louis ! ' '  she  exclaimed. 


CHAPTER  XIV 
THE  BARRIER 

THAT  gift  of  laughter  of  his  seemed  utterly  extinguished. 
For  once  there  was  no  gleam  of  humour  in  those  dark  eyes, 
as  they  continued  to  consider  her  with  that  queer  stare  of 
scrutiny.  And  yet,  though  his  gaze  was  sombre,  his  thoughts 
were  not.  With  his  cruelly  true  mental  vision  which  pierced 
through  shams,  and  his  capacity  for  detached  observation 
—  which  properly  applied  might  have  carried  him  very  far, 
indeed  —  he  perceived  the  grotesqueness,  the  artificiality 
of  the  emotion  which  in  that  moment  he  experienced,  but 
by  which  he  refused  to  be  possessed.  It  sprang  entirely 
from  the  consciousness  that  she  was  his  mother;  as  if,  all 
things  considered,  the  more  or  less  accidental  fact  that  she 
had  brought  him  into  the  world  could  establish  between 
them  any  real  bond  at  this  time  of  day!  The  motherhood 
that  bears  and  forsakes  is  less  than  animal.  He  had  con- 
sidered this;  he  had  been  given  ample  leisure  in  which  to 
consider  it  during  those  long,  turbulent  hours  in  which  he 
had  been  forced  to  wait,  because  it  would  have  been  almost 
impossible  to  have  won  across  that  seething  city,  and  cer- 
tainly unwise  to  have  attempted  so  to  do. 

He  had  reached  the  conclusion  that  by  consenting  to  go 
to  her  rescue  at  such  a  time  he  stood  committed  to  a  piece 
of  purely  sentimental  quixotry.  The  quittances  which  the 
Mayor  of  Meudon  had  exacted  from  him  before  he  would 
issue  the  necessary  safe-conducts  placed  the  whole  of  his 
future,  perhaps  his  very  life,  in  jeopardy.  And  he  had  con- 
sented to  do  this  not  for  the  sake  of  a  reality,  but  out  of 
regard  for  an  idea  —  he  who  all  his  life  had  avoided  the 
false  lure  of  worthless  and  hollow  sentimentality. 

Thus  thought  Andre-Louis  as  he  considered  her  now  so 
searchingly,  finding  it,  naturally  enough,  a  matter  of  extra- 


The  Barrier  369 


ordinary  interest  to  look  consciously  upon  his  mother  for 
the  first  time  at  the  age  of  eight-and-twenty. 

From  her  he  looked  at  last  at  Jacques,  who  remained  at 
attention,  waiting  by  the  open  door. 

"Could  we  be  alone,  madame?"  he  asked  her. 

She  waved  the  footman  away,  and  the  door  closed.  In 
agitated  silence,  unquestioning,  she  waited  for  him  to  ac- 
count for  his  presence  there  at  so  extraordinary  a  time. 

"Rougane  could  not  return,"  he  informed  her  shortly. 
"At  M.  de  Kercadiou's  request,  I  come  instead." 

"You!  You  are  sent  to  rescue  us !"  The  note  of  amaze- 
ment in  her  voice  was  stronger  than  that  of  her  relief. 

"That,  and  to  make  your  acquaintance,  madame." 

"To  make  my  acquaintance?  But  what  do  you  mean, 
Andre-Louis?" 

"This  letter  from  M.  de  Kercadiou  will  tell  you." 

Intrigued  by  his  odd  words  and  odder  manner,  she  took 
the  folded  sheet.  She  broke  the  seal  with  shaking  hands, 
and  with  shaking  hands  approached  the  written  page  to  the 
light.  Her  eyes  grew  troubled  as  she  read;  the  shaking  of 
her  hands  increased,  and  midway  through  that  reading  a 
moan  escaped  her.  One  glance  that  was  almost  terror  she 
darted  at  the  slim,  straight  man  standing  so  incredibly  im- 
passive upon  the  edge  of  the  light,  and  then  she  endeavoured 
to  read  on.  But  the  crabbed  characters  of  M.  de  Kercadiou 
swam  distortedly  under  her  eyes.  She  could  not  read.  Be- 
sides, what  could  it  matter  what  else  he  said.  She  had  read 
enough.  The  sheet  fluttered  from  her  hands  to  the  table,  and 
out  of  a  face  that  was  like  a  face  of  wax,  she  looked  now  with 
a  wistfulness,  a  sadness  indescribable,  at  Andr6-Louis. 

"And  so  you  know,  my  child?"  Her  voice  was  stifled  to 
a  whisper. 

"I  know,  madame  my  mother." 

The  grimness,  the  subtle  blend  of  merciless  derision  and 
reproach  in  which  it  was  uttered  completely  escaped  her. 
She  cried  out  at  the  new  name.  For  her  in  that  moment 
time  and  the  world  stood  still.  Her  peril  there  in  Paris  as 


37o  The  Sword 


the  wife  of  an  intriguer  at  Coblenz  was  blotted  out,  together 
with  every  other  consideration  —  thrust  out  of  a  conscious- 
ness that  could  find  room  for  nothing  else  beside  the  fact 
that  she  stood  acknowledged  by  her  only  son,  this  child  be- 
gotten in  adultery,  borne  furtively  and  in  shame  in  a  remote 
Brittany  village  eight-and-twenty  years  ago.  Not  even  a 
thought  for  the  betrayal  of  that  inviolable  secret,  or  the  con- 
sequences that  might  follow,  could  she  spare  in  this  supreme 
moment. 

She  took  one  or  two  faltering  steps  towards  him,  hesitat- 
ing. Then  she  opened  her  arms.  Sobs  suffocated  her  voice. 

"Won't  you  come  to  me,  Andre-Louis?" 

A  moment  yet  he  stood  hesitating,  startled  by  that  ap- 
peal, angered  almost  by  his  heart's  response  to  it,  reason  and 
sentiment  at  grips  in  his  soul.  This  was  not  real,  his  reason 
postulated;  this  poignant  emotion  that  she  displayed  and 
that  he  experienced  was  fantastic.  Yet  he  went.  Her  arms 
enfolded  him;  her  wet  cheek  was  pressed  hard  against  his 
own;  her  frame,  which  the  years  had  not  yet  succeeded' in 
robbing  of  its  grace,  was  shaken  by  the  passionate  storm 
within  her. 

"Oh,  Andr6-Louis,  my  child,  if  you  knew  how  I  have 
hungered  to  hold  you  so!  If  you  knew  how  in  denying 
myself  this  I  have  atoned  and  suffered!  Kercadiou  should 
not  have  told  you  —  not  even  now.  It  was  wrong  —  most 
wrong,  perhaps,  to  you.  It  would  have  been  better  that  he 
should  have  left  me  here  to  my  fate,  whatever  that  may 
be.  And  yet  —  come  what  may  of  this  —  to  be  able  to 
hold  you  so,  to  be  able  to  acknowledge  you,  to  hear  you  call 
me  mother  —  oh !  Andre-Louis,  I  cannot  now  regret  it.  I 
cannot  ...  I  cannot  wish  it  otherwise." 

"Is  there  any  need,  madame?"  he  asked  her,  his  stoicism 
deeply  shaken.  "There  is  no  occasion  to  take  others  into 
our  confidence.  This  is  for  to-night  alone.  To-night  we 
are  mother  and  son.  To-morrow  we  resume  our  former 
places,  and,  outwardly  at  least,  forget." 

"Forget?  Have  you  no  heart,  Andre-Louis?" 


The  Barrier  371 


The  question  recalled  him  curiously  to  his  attitude  to- 
wards life  —  that  histrionic  attitude  of  his  that  he  accounted 
true  philosophy.  Also  he  remembered  what  lay  before  them ; 
and  he  realized  that  he  must  master  not  only  himself  but 
her ;  that  to  yield  too  far  to  sentiment  at  such  a  time  might 
be  the  ruin  of  them  all. 

"  It  is  a  question  propounded  to  me  so  often  that  it  must 
contain  the  truth,"  said  he.  "My  rearing  is  to  blame  for 
that." 

She  tightened  her  clutch  about  his  neck  even  as  he  would 
have  attempted  to  disengage  himself  from  her  embrace. 

"You  do  not  blame  me  for  your  rearing?  Knowing  all, 
as  you  do,  Andr£-Louis,  you  cannot  altogether  blame.  You 
must  be  merciful  to  me.  You  must  forgive  me.  You  must! 
I  had  no  choice." 

"When  we  know  all  of  whatever  it  may  be,  we  can  never 
do  anything  but  forgive,  madame.  That  is  the  profoundest 
religious  truth  that  was  ever  written.  It  contains,  in  fact,  a 
whole  religion  —  the  noblest  religion  any  man  could  have 
to  guide  him.  I  say  this  for  your  comfort,  madame  my 
mother." 

She  sprang  away  from  him  with  a  startled  cry.  Beyond 
him  in  the  shadows  by  the  door  a  pale  figure  shimmered 
ghostly.  It  advanced  into  the  light,  and  resolved  itself  into 
Aline.  She  had  come  in  answer  to  that  forgotten  summons 
madame  had  sent  her  by  Jacques.  Entering  unperceived 
she  had  seen  Andr£-Louis  in  the  embrace  of  the  woman  whom 
he  addressed  as  "mother."  She  had  recognized  him  in- 
stantly by  his  voice,  and  she  could  not  have  said  what  be- 
wildered her  more :  his  presence  there  or  the  thing  she  over- 
heard. 

"You  heard,  Aline?"  madame  exclaimed. 

"I  could  not  help  it,  madame.  You  sent  for  me.  I  am 
sorry  if  ..."  She  broke  off,  and  looked  at  Andre-Louis  long 
and  curiously.  She  was  pale,  but  quite  composed.  She  held 
out  her  hand  to  him.  "And  so  you  have  come  at  last, 
Andr6,"  said  she.  "You  might  have  come  before." 


372  The  Sword 


"I  come  when  I  am  wanted,"  was  his  answer.  "Which 
is  the  only  time  in  which  one  can  be  sure  of  being  received." 
He  said  it  without  bitterness,  and  having  said  it  stooped  to 
kiss  her  hand. 

"You  can  forgive  me  what  is  past,  I  hope,  since  I  failed 
of  my  purpose,"  he  said  gently,  half -plead  ing.  "I  could 
not  have  come  to  you  pretending  that  the  failure  was  in- 
tentional —  a  compromise  between  the  necessities  of  the 
case  and  your  own  wishes.  For  it  was  not  that.  And  yet, 
you  do  not  seem  to  have  profited  by  my  failure.  You  are 
still  a  maid." 

She  turned  her  shoulder  to  him. 

"There  are  things,"  she  said,  "that  you  will  never  under- 
stand." 

"Life,  for  one,"  he  acknowledged.  "I  confess  that  I  am 
finding  it  bewildering.  The  very  explanations  calculated  to 
simplify  it  seem  but  to  complicate  it  further."  And  he 
looked  at  Mme.  de  Plougastel. 

"You  mean  something,  I  suppose,"  said  mademoiselle. 

"Aline!"  It  was  the  Countess  who  spoke.  She  knew  the 
danger  of  half-discoveries.  "I  can  trust  you,  child,  I  know, 
and  Andr6-Louis,  I  am  sure,  will  offer  no  objection."  She 
had  taken  up  the  letter  to  show  it  to  Aline.  Yet  first  her 
eyes  questioned  him. 

"Oh,  none,  madame,"  he  assured  her.  "It  is  entirely  a 
matter  for  yourself." 

Aline  looked  from  one  to  the  other  with  troubled  eyes, 
hesitating  to  take  the  letter  that  was  now  proffered.  When 
she  had  read  it  through,  she  very  thoughtfully  replaced  it 
on  the  table.  A  moment  she  stood  there  with  bowed  head, 
the  other  two  watching  her.  Then  impulsively  she  ran  to 
madame  and  put  her  arms  about  her. 

"Aline!"  It  was  a  cry  of  wonder,  almost  of  joy.  "You 
do  not  utterly  abhor  me!" 

"My  dear,"  said  Aline,  and  kissed  the  tear-stained  face 
that  seemed  to  have  grown  years  older  in  these  last  few 
hours. 


The  Barrier  373 


In  the  background  Andr6-Louis,  steeling  himself  against 
emotionalism,  spoke  with  the  voice  of  Scaramouche. 

"  It  would  be  well,  mesdames,  to  postpone  all  transports  un- 
til they  can  be  indulged  at  greater  leisure  and  in  more  secur- 
ity. It  is  growing  late.  If  we  are  to  get  out  of  this  shambles 
we  should  be  wise  to  take  the  road  without  more  delay." 

It  was  a  tonic  as  effective  as  it  was  necessary.  It  startled 
them  into  remembrance  of  their  circumstances,  and  under 
the  spur  of  it  they  went  at  once  to  make  their  preparations. 

They  left  him  for  perhaps  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  to  pace 
that  long  room  alone,  saved  only  from  impatience  by  the 
turmoil  of  his  mind.  When  at  length  they  returned,  they 
were  accompanied  by  a  tall  man  in  a  full-skirted  shaggy 
greatcoat  and  a  broad  hat  the  brim  of  which  was  turned  down 
all  around.  He  remained  respectfully  by  the  door  in  the 
shadows. 

Between  them  the  two  women  had  concerted  it  thus,  or 
rather  the  Countess  had  so  concerted  it  when  Aline  had 
warned  her  that  Andre-Louis'  bitter  hostility  towards  the 
Marquis  made  it  unthinkable  that  he  should  move  a  finger 
consciously  to  save  him. 

Now  despite  the  close  friendship  uniting  M.  de  Kerca- 
diou  and  his  niece  with  Mme.  de  Plougastel,  there  were  sev- 
eral matters  concerning  them  of  which  the  Countess  was 
in  ignorance.  One  of  these  was  the  project  at  one  time  ex- 
isting of  a  marriage  between  Aline  and  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr. 
It  was  a  matter  that  Aline  —  naturally  enough  in  the  state 
of  her  feelings  —  had  never  mentioned,  nor  had  M.  de 
Kercadiou  ever  alluded  to  it  since  his  coming  to  Meudon, 
by  when  he  had  perceived  how  unlikely  it  was  ever  to  be 
realized. 

M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr's  concern  for  Aline  on  that  morning 
of  the  duel  when  he  had  found  her  half-swooning  in  Mme. 
de  Plougastel's  carriage  had  been  of  a  circumspection  that 
betrayed  nothing  of  his  real  interest  in  her,  and  therefore 
had  appeared  no  more  than  natural  in  one  who  must  ac- 
count himself  the  cause  of  her  distress.  Similarly  Mme.  de 


374  Ffo  Sword 


Plougastel  had  never  realized  nor  did  she  realize  now  —  for 
Aline  did  not  trouble  fully  to  enlighten  her  —  that  the  hos- 
tility between  the  two  men  was  other  than  political,  the 
quarrel  other  than  that  which  already  had  taken  Andre- 
Louis  to  the  Bois  on  every  day  of  the  preceding  week.  But, 
at  least,  she  realized  that  even  if  Andr6-Louis'  rancour 
should  have  no  other  source,  yet  that  inconclusive  duel 
was  cause  enough  for  Aline's  fears. 

And  so  she  had  proposed  this  obvious  deception;  and 
Aline  had  consented  to  be  a  passive  party  to  it.  They  had 
made  the  mistake  of  not  fully  forewarning  and  persuading 
M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr.  They  had  trusted  entirely  to  his 
anxiety  to  escape  from  Paris  to  keep  him  rigidly  within 
the  part  imposed  upon  him.  They  had  reckoned  without 
the  queer  sense  of  honour  that  moved  such  men  as  M.  le 
Marquis,  nurtured  upon  a  code  of  shams. 

Andr£-Louis,  turning  to  scan  that  muffled  figure,  ad- 
vanced from  the  dark  depths  of  the  salon.  As  the  light  beat 
on  his  white,  lean  face  the  pseudo-footman  started.  The 
next  moment  he  too  stepped  forward  into  the  light,  and 
swept  his  broad-brimmed  hat  from  his  brow.  As  he  did  so 
Andre-Louis  observed  that  his  hand  was  fine  and  white  and 
that  a  jewel  flashed  from  one  of  the  fingers.  Then  he  caught 
his  breath,  and  stiffened  in  every  line  as  he  recognized  the 
face  revealed  to  him. 

"Monsieur,"  that  stern,  proud  man  was  saying,  "I  can- 
not take  advantage  of  your  ignorance.  If  these  ladies  can 
persuade  you  to  save  me,  at  least  it  is  due  to  you  that  you 
shall  know  whom  you  are  saving." 

He  stood  there  by  the  table  very  erect  and  dignified, 
ready  to  perish  as  he  had  lived  —  if  perish  he  must  —  with- 
out fear  and  without  deception. 

Andr£-Louis  came  slowly  forward  until  he  reached  the 
table  on  the  other  side,  and  then  at  last  the  muscles  of  his 
set  face  relaxed,  and  he  laughed. 

"You  laugh?"  said  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr,  frowning, 
offended. 


The  Barrier  375 


"It  is  so  darnnably  amusing,"  said  Andr6-Louis. 

"You've  an  odd  sense  of  humour,  M.  Moreau." 

"Oh,  admitted.  The  unexpected  always  moves  me  so.  I 
have  found  you  many  things  in  the  course  of  our  acquaint- 
ance. To-night  you  are  the  one  thing  I  never  expected  to 
find  you:  an  honest  man." 

M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr  quivered.  But  he  attempted  no 
reply. 

*' Because  of  that,  monsieur,  I  am  disposed  to  be  clement. 
It  is  probably  a  foolishness.  But  you  have  surprised  me 
into  it.  I  give  you  three  minutes,  monsieur,  in  which  to 
leave  this  house,  and  to  take  your  own  measures  for  your 
safety.  What  afterwards  happens  to  you  shall  be  no  concern 
of  mine." 

"Ah,  no,  Andr6!  Listen  . . ."  Madame  began  in  anguish. 

"Pardon,  madame.  It  is  the  utmost  that  I  will  do,  and 
already  I  am  violating  what  I  conceive  to  be  my  duty.  If 
M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr  remains  he  not  only  ruins  himself, 
but  he  imperils  you.  For  unless  he  departs  at  once,  he  goes 
with  me  to  the  headquarters  of  the  section,  and  the  section 
will  have  his  head  on  a  pike  inside  the  hour.  He  is  a  notori- 
ous counter-revolutionary,  a  knight  of  the  dagger,  one  of 
those  whom  an  exasperated  populace  is  determined  to  ex- 
terminate. Now,  monsieur,  you  know  what  awaits  you. 
Resolve  yourself  and  at  once,  for  these  ladies'  sake." 

"But  you  don't  know,  Andre-Louis ! "  Mme.  de  Plou- 
gastel's  condition  was  one  of  anguish  indescribable.  She 
came  to  him  and  clutched  his  arm.  ' '  For  the  love  of  Heaven, 
Andre-Louis,  be  merciful  with  him!  You  must!" 

"But  that  is  what  I  am  being,  madame  —  merciful; 
more  merciful  than  he  deserves.  And  he  knows  it.  Fate 
has  meddled  most  oddly  in  our  concerns  to  bring  us  to- 
gether to-night.  Almost  it  is  as  if  Fate  were  forcing  retribu- 
tion at  last  upon  him.  Yet,  for  your  sakes,  I  take  no  advan- 
tage of  it,  provided  that  he  does  at  once  as  I  have  desired 
him." 

And  now  from  beyond  the  table  the  Marquis  spoke  icily, 


376  The  Svxyrd 


and  as  he  spoke  his  right  hand  stirred  under  the  ample  folds 
of  his  greatcoat. 

"  I  am  glad,  M.  Moreau,  that  you  take  that  tone  with  me. 
You  relieve  me  of  the  last  scruple.  You  spoke  of  Fate  just 
now,  and  I  must  agree  with  you  that  Fate  has  meddled 
oddly,  though  perhaps  not  to  the  end  that  you  discern.  For 
years  now  you  have  chosen  to  stand  in  my  path  and  thwart 
me  at  every  turn,  holding  over  me  a  perpetual  menace. 
Persistently  you  have  sought  my  life  in  various  ways,  first 
indirectly  and  at  last  directly.  Your  intervention  in  my  af- 
fairs has  ruined  my  highest  hopes  —  more  effectively,  per- 
haps, than  you  suppose.  Throughout  you  have  been  my 
evil  genius.  And  you  are  even  one  of  the  agents  of  this 
climax  of  despair  that  has  been  reached  by  me  to-night." 

"Wait!  Listen!"  Madame  was  panting.  She  flung  away 
from  Andr£-Louis,  as  if  moved  by  some  premonition  of  what 
was  coming.  "Gervais!  This  is  horrible!" 

"Horrible,  perhaps,  but  inevitable.  Himself  he  has  in- 
vited it.  I  am  a  man  in  despair,  the  fugitive  of  a  lost  cause. 
That  man  holds  the  keys  of  escape.  And,  besides,  between 
him  and  me  there  is  a  reckoning  to  be  paid." 

His  hand  came  from  beneath  the  coat  at  last,  and  it  came 
armed  with  a  pistol. 

Mme.  de  Plougastel  screamed,  and  flung  herself  upon 
him.  On  her  knees  now,  she  clung  to  his  arm  with  all  her 
strength  and  might. 

Vainly  he  sought  to  shake  himself  free  of  that  desperate 
clutch. 

"Th6r£se!"  he  cried.  "Are  you  mad?  Will  you  destroy 
me  and  yourself?  This  creature  has  the  safe-conducts  that 
mean  our  salvation.  Himself,  he  is  nothing." 

From  the  background  Aline,  a  breathless,  horror-stricken 
spectator  of  that  scene,  spoke  sharply,  her  quick  mind 
pointing  out  the  line  of  checkmate. 

"Burn  the  safe-conducts,  Andr£-Louis.  Burn  them  at 
once  —  in  the  candles  there." 

But  Andr6-Louis  had  taken  advantage  of  that  moment 


The  Barrier  377 


of  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr's  impotence  to  draw  a  pistol  in 
his  turn.  "I  think  it  will  be  better  to  burn  his  brains  in- 
stead," he  said.  "Stand  away  from  him,  madame." 

Far  from  obeying  that  imperious  command,  Mme.  de 
Plougastel  rose  to  her  feet  to  cover  the  Marquis  with  her 
body.  But  she  still  clung  to  his  arm,  clung  to  it  with  un- 
suspected strength  that  continued  to  prevent  him  from  at- 
tempting to  use  the  pistol. 

"Andre!  For  God's  sake,  Andre!"  she  panted  hoarsely 
over  her  shoulder. 

"Stand  away,  madame,"  he  commanded  her  again,  more 
sternly,  "  and  let  this  murderer  take  his  due.  He  is  jeopard- 
izing all  our  lives,  and  his  own  has  been  forfeit  these  years. 
Stand  away!"  He  sprang  forward  with  intent  now  to  fire 
at  his  enemy  over  her  shoulder,  and  Aline  moved  too  late 
to  hinder  him. 

"Andre!  Andre!" 

Panting,  gasping,  haggard  of  face,  on  the  verge  almost  of 
hysteria,  the  distracted  Countess  flung  at  last  an  effective, 
a  terrible  barrier  between  the  hatred  of  those  men,  each  in- 
tent upon  taking  the  other's  life. 

"  He  is  your  father,  Andr£ !  Gervais,  he  is  your  son  —  our 
son !  The  letter  there  ...  on  the  table  .  . .  O  my  God ! "  And 
she  slipped  nervelessly  to  the  ground,  and  crouched  there 
sobbing  at  the  feet  of  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr. 


CHAPTER  XV 
SAFE-CONDUCT 

ACROSS  the  body  of  that  convulsively  sobbing  woman,  the 
mother  of  one  and  the  mistress  of  the  other,  the  eyes  of  those 
mortal  enemies  met,  invested  with  a  startled,  appalled  in- 
terest that  admitted  of  no  words. 

Beyond  the  table,  as  if  turned  to  stone  by  this  culminat- 
ing horror  of  revelation,  stood  Aline. 

M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr  was  the  first  to  stir.  Into  his  be- 
wildered mind  came  the  memory  of  something  that  Mme. 
de  Plougastel  had  said  of  a  letter  that  was  on  the  table. 
He  came  forward,  unhindered.  The  announcement  made, 
Mme.  de  Plougastel  no  longer  feared  the  sequel,  and  so  she 
let  him  go.  He  walked  unsteadily  past  this  new-found  son 
of  his,  and  took  up  the  sheet  that  lay  beside  the  candle- 
branch.  A  long  moment  he  stood  reading  it,  none  heeding 
him.  Aline's  eyes  were  all  on  Andre-Louis,  full  of  wonder 
and  commiseration,  whilst  Andre-Louis  was  staring  down, 
in  stupefied  fascination,  at  his  mother. 

M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr  read  the  letter  slowly  through. 
Then  very  quietly  he  replaced  it.  His  next  concern,  being 
the  product  of  an  artificial  age  sternly  schooled  in  the  sup- 
pression of  emotion,  was  to  compose  himself.  Then  he 
stepped  back  to  Mme.  de  Plougastel's  side  and  stooped  to 
raise  her. 

"Th6rese,"  he  said. 

Obeying,  by  instinct,  the  implied  command,  she  made  an 
effort  to  rise  and  to  control  herself  in  her  turn.  The  Mar- 
quis half  conducted,  half  carried  her  to  the  armchair  by  the 
table. 

Andr6-Louis  looked  on.  Still  numbed  and  bewildered, 
he  made  no  attempt  to  assist.  He  saw  as  in  a  dream  the 


Safe-Conduct  379 


Marquis  bending  over  Mme.  de  Plougastel.  As  in  a  dream 
he  heard  him  ask: 

"How  long  have  you  known  this,  Therese?" 

"  I  ...  I  have  always  known  it ...  always.  I  confided  him 
to  Kercadiou.  I  saw  him  once  as  a  child  .  .  .  Oh,  but  what 
of  that?" 

"Why  was  I  never  told?  Why  did  you  deceive  me?  Why 
did  you  tell  me  that  this  child  had  died  a  few  days  after 
birth?  Why,  Therese?  Why?" 

"I  was  afraid.  I  ...  I  thought  it  better  so  —  that  no- 
body, nobody,  not  even  you,  should  know.  And  nobody 
has  known  save  Quintin  until  last  night,  when  to  induce  him 
to  come  here  and  save  me  he  was  forced  to  tell  him." 

"But  I,  Therese?"  the  Marquis  insisted.  "It  was  my 
right  to  know." 

"Your  right?  What  could  you  have  done?  Acknowl- 
edge him?  And  then?  Ha!"  It  was  a  queer,  desperate  note 
of  laughter.  "There  was  Plougastel;  there  was  my  family. 
And  there  was  you  .  .  .  you,  yourself,  who  had  ceased  to 
care,  in  whom  the  fear  of  discovery  had  stifled  love.  WThy 
should  I  have  told  you,  then?  Why?  I  should  not  have 
told  you  now  had  there  been  any  other  way  to  ...  to  save 
you  both.  Once  before  I  suffered  just  such  dreadful  appre- 
hensions when  you  and  he  fought  in  the  Bois.  I  was  on  my 
way  to  prevent  it  when  you  met  me.  I  would  have  divulged 
the  truth,  as  a  last  resource,  to  avert  that  horror.  But 
mercifully  God  spared  me  the  necessity  then." 

It  had  not  occurred  to  any  of  them  to  doubt  her  state- 
ment, incredible  though  it  might  seem.  Had  any  done  so 
her  present  words  must  have  resolved  all  doubt,  explaining 
as  they  did  much  that  to  each  of  her  listeners  had  been  ob- 
scure until  this  moment. 

M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr,  overcome,  reeled  away  to  a  chair 
and  sat  down  heavily.  Losing  command  of  himself  for  a 
moment,  he  took  his  haggard  face  in  his  hands. 

Through  the  windows  open  to  the  garden  came  from  the 
distance  the  faint  throbbing  of  a  drum  to  remind  them  of 


380  The  Sword 


what  was  happening  around  them.  But  the  sound  went 
unheeded.  To  each  it  must  have  seemed  that  here  they 
were  face  to  face  with  a  horror  greater  than  any  that  might 
be  tormenting  Paris.  At  last  Andre-Louis  began  to  speak, 
his  voice  level  and  unutterably  cold. 

"M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr,"  he  said,  "I  trust  that  you'll 
agree  that  this  disclosure,  which  can  hardly  be  more  dis- 
tasteful and  horrible  to  you  than  it  is  to  me,  alters  nothing, 
since  it  effaces  nothing  of  all  that  lies  between  us.  Or,  if  it 
alters  anything,  it  is  merely  to  add  something  to  that  score. 
And  yet  .  .  .  Oh,  but  what  can  it  avail  to  talk!  Here,  mon- 
sieur, take  this  safe-conduct  which  is  made  out  for  Mme.  de 
Plougastel's  footman,  and  with  it  make  your  escape  as  best 
you  can.  In  return  I  will  beg  of  you  the  favour  never  to 
allow  me  to  see  you  or  hear  of  you  again." 

"Andre!"  His  mother  swung  upon  him  with  that  cry. 
And  yet  again  that  question:  "Have  you  no  heart?  What 
has  he  ever  done  to  you  that  you  should  nurse  so  bitter 
a  hatred  of  him?" 

"You  shall  hear,  madame.  Once,  two  years  ago  in  this 
very  room  I  told  you  of  a  man  who  had  brutally  killed  my 
dearest  friend  and  debauched  the  girl  I  was  to  have  mar- 
ried. M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr  is  that  man." 

A  moan  was  her  only  answer.  She  covered  her  face  with 
her  hands. 

The  Marquis  rose  slowly  to  his  feet  again.  He  came 
slowly  forward,  his  smouldering  eyes  scanning  his  son's  face. 

"You  are  hard,"  he  said  grimly.  "But  I  recognize  the 
hardness.  It  derives  from  the  blood  you  bear." 

"Spare  me  that,"  said  Andre-Louis. 

The  Marquis  inclined  his  head.  "I  will  not  mention  it 
again.  But  I  desire  that  you  should  at  least  understand  me, 
and  you  too,  Therese.  You  accuse  me,  sir,  of  murdering 
your  dearest  friend.  I  will  admit  that  the  means  employed 
were  perhaps  unworthy.  But  what  other  means  were  at  my 
command  to  meet  an  urgency  that  every  day  since  then 
proves  to  have  existed?  M.  de  Vilmorin  was  a  revolution- 


Safe-Conduct  381 


ary,  a  man  of  new  ideas  that  should  overthrow  society  and 
rebuild  it  more  akin  to  the  desires  of  such  as  himself.  I  be- 
longed to  the  order  that  quite  as  justifiably  desired  society 
to  remain  as  it  was.  Not  only  was  it  better  so  for  me  and 
mine,  but  I  also  contend,  and  you  have  yet  to  prove  me 
wrong,  that  it  is  better  so  for  all  the  world;  that,  indeed, 
no  other  conceivable  society  is  possible.  Every  human 
society  must  of  necessity  be  composed  of  several  strata. 
You  may  disturb  it  temporarily  into  an  amorphous  whole  by 
a  revolution  such  as  this;  but  only  temporarily.  Soon  out 
of  the  chaos  which  is  all  that  you  and  your  kind  can  ever 
produce,  order  must  be  restored  or  life  will  perish ;  and  with 
the  restoration  of  order  comes  the  restoration  of  the  various 
strata  necessary  to  organized  society.  Those  that  were 
yesterday  at  the  top  may  in  the  new  order  of  things  find 
themselves  dispossessed  without  any  benefit  to  the  whole. 
That  change  I  resisted.  The  spirit  of  it  I  fought  with  what- 
ever weapons  were  available,  whenever  and  wherever  I 
encountered  it.  M.  de  Vilmorin  was  an  incendiary  of  the 
worst  type,  a  man  of  eloquence  full  of  false  ideals  that  mis- 
led poor  ignorant  men  into  believing  that  the  change  pro- 
posed could  make  the  world  a  better  place  for  them.  You 
are  an  intelligent  man,  and  I  defy  you  to  answer  me  from 
your  heart  and  conscience  that  such  a  thing  was  true  or 
possible.  You  know  that  it  is  untrue;  you  know  that  it  is 
a  pernicious  doctrine;  and  what  made  it  worse  on  the  lips 
of  M.  de  Vilmorin  was  that  he  was  sincere  and  eloquent. 
His  voice  was  a  danger  that  must  be  removed  —  silenced. 
So  much  was  necessary  in  self-defence.  In  self-defence  I 
did  it.  I  had  no  grudge  against  M.  de  Vilmorin.  He  was  a 
man  of  my  own  class;  a  gentleman  of  pleasant  ways,  ami- 
able, estimable,  and  able. 

"You  conceive  me  slaying  him  for  the  very  lust  of  slaying, 
like  some  beast  of  the  jungle  flinging  itself  upon  its  natural 
prey.  That  has  been  your  error  from  the  first.  I  did  what 
I  did  with  the  very  heaviest  heart  —  oh,  spare  me  your 
sneer!  —  I  do  not  lie.  I  have  never  lied.  And  I  swear  to  you 


382  The  Sword 


here  and  now,  by  my  every  hope  of  Heaven,  that  what  I 
say  is  true.  I  loathed  the  thing  I  did.  Yet  for  my  own  sake 
and  the  sake  of  my  order  I  must  do  it.  Ask  yourself  whether 
M.  de  Vilmorin  would  have  hesitated  for  a  moment  if  by 
procuring  my  death  he  could  have  brought  the  Utopia  of 
his  dreams  a  moment  nearer  realization. 

"After  that.  You  determined  that  the  sweetest  venge- 
ance would  be  to  frustrate  my  ends  by  reviving  in  yourself 
the  voice  that  I  had  silenced,  by  yourself  carrying  forward 
the  fantastic  apostleship  of  equality  that  was  M.  de  Vil- 
morin's.  You  lacked  the  vision  that  would  have  shown 
you  that  God  did  not  create  men  equals.  Well,  you  are  in 
case  to-night  to  judge  which  of  us  was  right,  which  wrong. 
You  see  what  is  happening  here  in  Paris.  You  see  the  foul 
spectre  of  Anarchy  stalking  through  a  land  fallen  into  con- 
fusion. Probably  you  have  enough  imagination  to  conceive 
something  of  what  must  follow.  And  do  you  deceive  your- 
self that  out  of  this  filth  and  ruin  there  will  rise  up  an  ideal 
form  of  society?  Don't  you  understand  that  society  must 
re-order  itself  presently  out  of  all  this? 

"But  why  say  more?  I  must  have  said  enough  to  make 
you  understand  the  only  thing  that  really  matters  —  that  I 
killed  M.  de  Vilmorin  as  a  matter  of  duty  to  my  order.  And 
the  truth  —  which  though  it  may  offend  you  should  also 
convince  you  —  is  that  to-night  I  can  look  back  on  the  deed 
with  equanimity,  without  a  single  regret,  apart  from  what 
lies  between  you  and  me. 

"When,  kneeling  beside  the  body  of  your  friend  that  day 
at  Gavrillac,  you  insulted  and  provoked  me,  had  I  been  the 
tiger  you  conceived  me  I  must  have  killed  you  too.  I  am,  as 
you  may  know,  a  man  of  quick  passions.  Yet  I  curbed  the 
natural  anger  you  aroused  in  me,  because  I  could  forgive  an 
affront  to  myself  where  I  could  not  overlook  a  calculated 
attack  upon  my  order." 

He  paused  a  moment.  Andr£-Louis  stood  rigid  listening 
and  wondering.  So,  too,  the  others.  Then  M.  le  Marquis 
resumed,  on  a  note  of  less  assurance.  "In  the  matter  of 


Safe-Conduct  383 


Mile.  Binet  I  was  unfortunate.  I  wronged  you  through  inad- 
vertence. I  had  no  knowledge  of  the  relations  between  you." 

Andr6-Louis  interrupted  him  sharply  at  last  with  a  ques- 
tion: "Would  it  have  made  a  difference  if  you  had?" 

"No,"  he  was  answered  frankly.  "  I  have  the  faults  of  my 
kind.  I  cannot  pretend  that  any  such  scruple  as  you  suggest 
would  have  weighed  with  me.  But  can  you  —  if  you  are 
capable  of  any  detached  judgment  —  blame  me  very  much 
for  that?" 

"All  things  considered,  monsieur,  I  am  rapidly  being 
forced  to  the  conclusion  that  it  is  impossible  to  blame  any 
man  for  anything  in  this  world ;  that  we  are  all  of  us  the  sport 
of  destiny.  Consider,  monsieur,  this  gathering  —  this  family 
gathering  —  here  to-night,  whilst  out  there  .  .  .  O  my  God, 
let  us  make  an  end !  Let  us  go  our  ways  and  write  '  finis '  to 
this  horrible  chapter  of  our  lives." 

M.  le  La  Tour  considered  him  gravely,  sadly,  in  silence  for 
a  moment. 

"Perhaps  it  is  best,"  he  said,  at  length,  in  a  small  voice. 
He  turned  to  Mme.  de  Plougastel.  "If  a  wrong  I  have  to 
admit  in  my  life,  a  wrong  that  I  must  bitterly  regret,  it  is 
the  wrong  that  I  have  done  to  you,  my  dear  ..." 

"Not  now,  Gervais !  Not  now ! "  she  faltered,  interrupting 
him. 

"Now  —  for  the  first  and  the  last  time.  I  am  going.  It  is 
not  likely  that  we  shall  ever  meet  again  —  that  I  shall  ever 
see  any  of  you  again  —  you  who  should  have  been  the  near- 
est and  dearest  to  me.  We  are  all,  he  says,  the  sport  of  des- 
tiny. Ah,  but  not  quite.  Destiny  is  an  intelligent  force, 
moving  with  purpose.  In  life  we  pay  for  the  evil  that  in  life 
we  do.  That  is  the  lesson  that  I  have  learnt  to-night.  By  an 
act  of  betrayal  I  begot  unknown  to  me  a  son  who,  whilst  as 
ignorant  as  myself  of  our  relationship,  has  come  to  be  the 
evil  genius  of  my  life,  to  cross  and  thwart  me,  and  finally  to 
help  to  pull  me  down  in  ruin.  It  is  just  —  poetically  just. 
My  full  and  resigned  acceptance  of  that  fact  is  the  only 
atonement  I  can  offer  you." 


384  The  Sword 


He  stooped  and  took  one  of  madame's  hands  that  lay 
limply  in  her  lap. 

"Good-bye,  Therese!"  His  voice  broke.  He  had  reached 
the  end  of  his  iron  self-control. 

She  rose  and  clung  to  him  a  moment,  unashamed  before 
them.  The  ashes  of  that  dead  romance  had  been  deeply 
stirred  this  night,  and  deep  down  some  lingering  embers  had 
been  found  that  glowed  brightly  now  before  their  final  ex- 
tinction. Yet  she  made  no  attempt  to  detain  him.  She 
understood  that  their  son  had  pointed  out  the  only  wise,  the 
only  possible  course,  and  was  thankful  that  M.  de  La  Tour 
d'Azyr  accepted  it. 

"God  keep  you,  Gervais,"  she  murmured.  "You  will  take 
the  safe-conduct,  and  .  .  .  and  you  will  let  me  know  when  you 
are  safe?" 

He  held  her  face  between  his  hands  an  instant;  then  very 
gently  kissed  her  and  put  her  from  him.  Standing  erect,  and 
outwardly  calm  again,  he  looked  across  at  Andre-Louis  who 
was  proffering  him  a  sheet  of  paper. 

"It  is  the  safe-conduct.  Take  it,  monsieur.  It  is  my  first 
and  last  gift  to  you,  and  certainly  the  last  gift  I  should  ever 
have  thought  of  making  you  —  the  gift  of  life.  In  a  sense  it 
makes  us  quits.  The  irony,  sir,  is  not  mine,  but  Fate's.  Take 
it,  monsieur,  and  go  in  peace." 

M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr  took  it.  His  eyes  looked  hungrily 
into  the  lean  face  confronting  him,  so  sternly  set.  He  thrust 
the  paper  into  his  bosom,  and  then  abruptly,  convulsively, 
held  out  his  hand.  His  son's  eyes  asked  a  question. 

"Let  there  be  peace  between  us,  in  God's  name,"  said  the 
Marquis  thickly. 

Pity  stirred  at  last  in  Andre-Louis.  /Some  of  the  sternness 
left  his  face.  He  sighed.  "Good-bye,  monsieur,"  he  said. 

"You  are  hard,"  his  father  told  him,  speaking  wistfully. 
"But  perhaps  you  are  in  the  right  so  to  be.  In  other  cir- 
cumstances I  should  have  been  proud  to  have  owned  you  as 
my  son.  As  it  is  .  .  ."  He  broke  off  abruptly,  and  as  ab- 
ruptly added,  "Good-bye." 


Safe-Conduct  385 


He  loosed  his  son's  hand  and  stepped  back.  They  bowed 
formally  to  each  other.  And  then  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr 
bowed  to  Mile,  de  Kercadiou  in  utter  silence,  a  bow  that 
contained  something  of  utter  renunciation,  of  finality. 

That  done  he  turned  and  walked  stiffly  out  of  the  room, 
and  so  out  of  all  their  lives.  Months  later  they  were  to  hear 
of  him  in  the  service  of  the  Emperor  of  Austria. 


CHAPTER  XVI 
SUNRISE 

ANDR£-LOUIS  took  the  air  next  morning  on  the  terrace  at 
Meudon.  The  hour  was  very  early,  and  the  newly  risen  sun 
was  transmuting  into  diamonds  the  dewdrops  that  still 
lingered  on  the  lawn.  Down  in  the  valley,  five  miles  away, 
the  morning  mists  were  rising  over  Paris.  Yet  early  as  it 
was  that  house  on  the  hill  was  astir  already,  in  a  bustle  of 
preparation  for  the  departure  that  was  imminent. 

Andre-Louis  had  won  safely  out  of  Paris  last  night  with 
his  mother  and  Aline,  and  to-day  they  were  to  set  out  all  of 
them  for  Coblenz. 

To  Andre-Louis,  sauntering  there  with  hands  clasped  be- 
hind him  and  head  hunched  between  his  shoulders  —  for 
life  had  never  been  richer  in  material  for  reflection  —  came 
presently  Aline  through  one  of  the  glass  doors  from  the 
library. 

"You're  early  astir,"  she  greeted  him. 

"Faith,  yes.  I  have  n't  been  to  bed.  No,"  he  assured  her, 
in  answer  to  her  exclamation.  "I  spent  the  night  or  what 
was  left  of  it  sitting  at  the  window  thinking." 

"My  poor  Andre!" 

"You  describe  me  perfectly.  I  am  very  poor  —  for  I 
know  nothing,  understand  nothing.  It  is  not  a  calamitous 
condition  until  it  is  realized.  Then  .  .  ."  He  threw  out  his 
arms,  and  let  them  fall  again.  His  face  she  observed  was 
very  drawn  and  haggard. 

She  paced  with  him  along  the  old  granite  balustrade  over 
which  the  geraniums  flung  their  mantle  of  green  and  scarlet. 

"Have  you  decided  what  you  are  going  to  do?"  she  asked 
him. 

"I  have  decided  that  I  have  no  choice.  I,  too,  must  emi- 
grate. I  am  lucky  to  be  able  to  do  so,  lucky  to  have  found  no 


Sunrise  387 

one  amid  yesterday's  chaos  in  Paris  to  whom  I  could  report 
myself  as  I  foolishly  desired,  else  I  might  no  longer  be  armed 
withthese."  He  drew  from  his  pocket  the  powerful  pass- 
port of  the  Commission  of  Twelve,  enjoining  upon  all 
Frenchmen  to  lend  him  such  assistance  as  he  might  require, 
and  warning  those  who  might  think  of  hindering  him  that 
they  did  so  at  their  own  peril.  He  spread  it  before  her. 
"With  this  I  conduct  you  all  safely  to  the  frontier.  Over  the 
frontier  M.  de  Kercadiou  and  Mme.  de  Plougastel  will 
have  to  conduct  me;  and  then  we  shall  be  quits." 

"Quits?"  quoth  she.  "But  you  will  be  unable  to  return!" 

"You  conceive,  of  course,  my  eagerness  to  do  so.  My 
child,  in  a  day  or  two  there  will  be  enquiries.  It  will  be  asked 
what  has  become  of  me.  Things  will  transpire.  Then  the 
hunt  will  start.  But  by  then  we  shall  be  well  upon  our  way, 
well  ahead  of  any  possible  pursuit.  You  don't  imagine  that 
I  could  ever  give  the  government  any  satisfactory  explana- 
tion of  my  absence  —  assuming  that  any  government  re- 
mains to  which  to  explain  it?" 

"You  mean  .  .  .  that  you  will  sacrifice  your  future,  this 
career  upon  which  you  have  embarked?"  It  took  her 
breath  away. 

"  In  the  pass  to  which  things  have  come  there  is  no  career 
for  me  down  there  —  at  least  no  honest  one.  And  I  hope  you 
do  not  think  that  I  could  be  dishonest.  It  is  the  day  of  the 
Dantons,  and  the  Marats,  the  day  of  the  rabble.  The  reins 
of  government  will  be  tossed  to  the  populace,  or  else  the 
populace,  drunk  with  the  conceit  with  which  the  Dantons 
and  the  Marats  have  filled  it,  will  seize  the  reins  by  force. 
Chaos  must  follow,  and  a  despotism  of  brutes  and  apes,  a 
government  of  the  whole  by  its  lowest  parts.  It  cannot  en- 
dure, because  unless  a  nation  is  ruled  by  its  best  elements  it 
must  wither  and  decay." 

"I  thought  you  were  a  republican,"  said  she. 

"Why,  so  I  am.  I  am  talking  like  one.  I  desire  a  society 
which  selects  its  rulers  from  the  best  elements  of  every  class 
and  denies  the  right  of  any  class  or  corporation  to  usurp  the 


388  The  Sword 


government  to  itself  —  whether  it  be  the  nobles,  the  clergy, 
the  bourgeoisie,  or  the  proletariat.  For  government  by  any 
one  class  is  fatal  to  the  welfare  of  the  whole.  Two  years  ago 
our  ideal  seemed  to  have  been  realized.  The  monopoly  of 
power  had  been  taken  from  the  class  that  had  held  it  too  long 
and  too  unjustly  by  the  hollow  right  of  heredity.  It  had  been 
distributed  as  evenly  as  might  be  throughout  the  State,  and 
if  men  had  only  paused  there,  all  would  have  been  well.  But 
our  impetus  carried  us  too  far,  the  privileged  orders  goaded 
us  on  by  their  very  opposition,  and  the  result  is  the  horror  of 
which  yesterday  you  saw  no  more  than  the  beginnings.  No, 
no,"  he  ended.  "Careers  there  may  be  for  venal  place-seek- 
ers, for  opportunists;  but  none  for  a  man  who  desires  to  re- 
spect himself .  It  is  time  to  go.  I  make  no  sacrifice  in  going." 

"But  where  will  you  go?  What  will  you  do?" 

"Oh,  something.  Consider  that  in  four  years  I  have  been 
lawyer,  politician,  swordsman,  and  buffoon  —  especially  the 
latter.  There  is  always  a  place  in  the  world  for  Scaramouche. 
Besides,  do  you  know  that  unlike  Scaramouche  I  have  been 
oddly  provident?  I  am  the  owner  of  a  little  farm  in  Saxony. 
I  think  that  agriculture  might  suit  me.  It  is  a  meditative 
occupation;  and  when  all  is  said,  I  am  not  a  man  of  action. 
I  have  n't  the  qualities  for  the  part." 

She  looked  up  into  his  face,  and  there  was  a  wistful  smile 
in  her  deep  blue  eyes. 

"  Is  there  any  part  for  which  you  have  not  the  qualities,  I 
wonder?" 

"Do  you  really?  Yet  you  cannot  say  that  I  have  made  a 
success  of  any  of  those  which  I  have  played.  I  have  always 
ended  by  running  away.  I  am  running  away  now  from  a 
thriving  feneing-academy,  which  is  likely  to  become  the 
property  of  Le  Due.  That  comes  of  having  gone  into  politics, 
from  which  I  am  also  running  away.  It  is  the  one  thing  in 
which  I  really  excel.  That,  too,  is  an  attribute  of  Scara- 
mouche." 

"Why  will  you  always  be  deriding  yourself?"  she  won- 
dered. 


Sunrise  389 

"Because  I  recognize  myself  for  part  of  this  mad  world,  I 
suppose.  You  would  n't  have  me  take  it  seriously?  I  should 
lose  my  reason  utterly  if  I  did;  especially  since  discovering 
my  parents." 

"Don't,  Andre!"  she  begged  him.  "You  are  insincere, 
you  know." 

"Of  course  I  am.  Do  you  expect  sincerity  in  man  when 
hypocrisy  is  the  very  keynote  of  human  nature?  We  are 
nurtured  on  it;  we  are  schooled  in  it,  we  live  by  it;  and  we 
rarely  realize  it.  You  have  seen  it  rampant  and  out  of  hand 
in  France  during  the  past  four  years  —  cant  and  hypocrisy 
on  the  lips  of  the  revolutionaries,  cant  and  hypocrisy  on  the 
lips  of  the  upholders  of  the  old  regime;  a  riot  of  hypocrisy 
out  of  which  in  the  end  is  begotten  chaos.  And  I  who  criti- 
cize it  all  on  this  beautiful  God-given  morning  am  the 
rankest  and  most  contemptible  hypocrite  of  all.  It  was  this 
—  the  realization  of  this  truth  kept  me  awake  all  night.  For 
two  years  I  have  persecuted  by  every  means  in  my  power 
.  .  .  M.  de  La  Tour  d'Azyr." 

He  paused  before  uttering  the  name,  paused  as  if  hesitat- 
ing how  to  speak  of  him. 

"And  in  those  two  years  I  have  deceived  myself  as  to  the 
motive  that  was  spurring  me.  He  spoke  of  me  last  night  as 
the  evil  genius  of  his  life,  and  himself  he  recognized  the  jus- 
tice of  this.  It  may  be  that  he  was  right,  and  because  of  that 
it  is  probable  that  even  had  he  not  killed  Philippe  de  Vil- 
morin,  things  would  still  have  been  the  same.  Indeed,  to-day 
I  know  that  they  must  have  been.  That  is  why  I  call  myself 
a  hypocrite,  a  poor,  self-duping  hypocrite." 

"But  why,  Andre?" 

He  stood  still  and  looked  at  her.  "Because  he  sought  you, 
Aline.  Because  in  that  alone  he  must  have  found  me 
ranged  against  him,  utterly  intransigeant.  Because  of  that 
I  must  have  strained  every  nerve  to  bring  him  down  —  so 
as  to  save  you  from  becoming  the  prey  of  your  own  am- 
bition. 

"I  wish  to  speak  of  him  no  more  than  I  must.  After  this, 


3QO  The  Sword 


I  trust  never  to  speak  of  him  again.  Before  the  lines  of  our 
lives  crossed,  I  knew  him  for  what  he  was,  I  knew  the  report 
of  him  that  ran  the  countryside.  Even  then  I  found  him  de- 
testable. You  heard  him  allude  last  night  to  the  unfortunate 
La  Binet.  You  heard  him  plead,  in  extenuation  of  his  fault, 
his  mode  of  life,  his  rearing.  To  that  there  is  no  answer,  I 
suppose.  He  conforms  to  type.  Enough!  But  to  me,  he 
was  the  embodiment  of  evil,  just  as  you  have  always  been 
the  embodiment  of  good;  he  was  the  embodiment  of  sin, 
just  as  you  are  the  embodiment  of  purity.  I  had  enthroned 
you  so  high,  Aline,  so  high,  and  yet  no  higher  than  your 
place.  Could  I,  then,  suffer  that  you  should  be  dragged 
down  by  ambition,  could  I  suffer  the  evil  I  detested  to  mate 
with  the  good  I  loved?  What  could  have  come  of  it  but  your 
own  damnation,  as  I  told  you  that  day  at  Gavrillac?  Be- 
cause of  that  my  detestation  of  him  became  a  personal,  ac- 
tive thing.  I  resolved  to  save  you  at  all  costs  from  a  fate  so 
horrible.  Had  you  been  able  to  tell  me  that  you  loved  him  it 
would  have  been  different.  I  should  have  hoped  that  in  a 
union  sanctified  by  love  you  would  have  raised  him  to  your 
own  pure  heights.  But  that  out  of  considerations  of  worldly 
advancement  you  should  lovelessly  consent  to  mate  with 
him  .  .  .  Oh,  it  was  vile  and  hopeless.  And  so  I  fought  him 
—  a  rat  fighting  a  lion  —  fought  him  relentlessly  until  I 
saw  that  love  had  come  to  take  in  your  heart  the  place  of 
ambition.  Then  I  desisted." 

' '  Until  you  saw  that  love  had  taken  the  place  of  ambition ! " 
Tears  had  been  gathering  in  her  eyes  whilst  he  was  speak- 
ing. Now  amazement  eliminated  her  emotion.  "But  when 
did  you  see  that?  When?" 

"I  —  I  was  mistaken.  I  know  it  now.  Yet,  at  the  time 
.  .  .  surely,  Aline,  that  morning  when  you  came  to  beg  me 
not  to  keep  my  engagement  with  him  in  the  Bois,  you  were 
moved  by  concern  for  him?" 

"For  him!  It  was  concern  for  you,"  she  cried,  without 
thinking  what  she  said. 

But  it  did  not  convince  him.   "Forme?  When  you  knew 


Sunrise  391 

—  when  all  the  world  knew  what  I  had  been  doing  daily  for  a 
week!" 

"Ah,  but  he,  he  was  different  from  the  others  you  had 
met.  His  reputation  stood  high.  My  uncle  accounted  him 
invincible;  he  persuaded  me  that  if  you  met  nothing  could 
save  you." 

He  looked  at  her  frowning. 

"Why  this,  Aline?"  he  asked  her  with  some  sternness. 
"I  can  understand  that,  having  changed  since  then,  you 
should  now  wish  to  disown  those  sentiments.  It  is  a  woman's 
way,  I  suppose." 

"Oh,  what  are  you  saying,  Andre?  How  wrong  you  are! 
It  is  the  truth  I  have  told  you!" 

"And  was  it  concern  for  me,"  he  asked  her,  "that  laid 
you  swooning  when  you  saw  him  return  wounded  from  the 
meeting?  That  was  what  opened  my  eyes." 

"Wounded?  I  had  not  seen  his  wound.  I  saw  him  sitting 
alive  and  apparently  unhurt  in  his  caleche,  and  I  concluded 
that  he  had  killed  you  as  he  had  said  he  would.  What  else 
could  I  conclude?" 

He  saw  light,  dazzling,  blinding,  and  it  scared  him.  He 
fell  back,  a  hand  to  his  brow.  "And  that  was  why  you 
fainted?"  he  asked  incredulously. 

She  looked  at  him  without  answering.  As  she  began  to 
realize  how  much  she  had  been  swept  into  saying  by  her 
eagerness  to  make  him  realize  his  error,  a  sudden  fear 
came  creeping  into  her  eyes. 

He  held  out  both  hands  to  her. 

"Aline!  Aline!"  His  voice  broke  on  the  name.  "It  was 
I  ..." 

"  O  blind  Andre,  it  was  always  you  —  always !  Never,  never 
did  I  think  of  him,  not  even  for  loveless  marriage,  save  once 
for  a  little  while,  when  .  .  .  when  that  theatre  girl  came  into 
your  life,  and  then  ..."  She  broke  off,  shrugged,  and 
turned  her  head  away.  "I  thought  of  following  ambition, 
since  there  was  nothing  left  to  follow." 

He  shook  himself.  "I  am  dreaming,  of  course,  or  else  I 
am  mad,"  he  said. 


392  The  Sword 


"Blind,  Andr6;  just  blind,"  she  assured  him. 

"Blind  only  where  it  would  have  been  presumption  to 
have  seen." 

"And  yet,"  she  answered  him  with  a  flash  of  the  Aline  he 
had  known  of  old,  "I  have  never  found  you  lack  presump- 
tion." 

M.  de  Kercadiou,  emerging  a  moment  later  from  the 
library  window,  beheld  them  holding  hands  and  staring 
each  at  the  other,  beatifically,  as  if  each  saw  Paradise  in 
the  other's  face. 


THE  END 


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